


The Wheel of Fortune

by elanor_pam



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asshole Church, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Confinement, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gaslighting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Isle of Fortuna (Devil May Cry), Malnutrition, Manhandling, Medical, Misogyny, Nuns, Parent Vergil (Devil May Cry), Parenthood, Paternal Instinct, Poisoning, Religious Cults, Religious Fanaticism, Rescue, Sensory Deprivation, Sibling Bonding, Starvation, Unplanned Pregnancy, Violent Thoughts, munchhausen by proxy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 92,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanor_pam/pseuds/elanor_pam
Summary: It's been five years since the summoning of Temen Ni Gru, and Vergilfinallydeigns to contact Dante... in his professional capacity as a Devil Hunter, password and all.Something is afoot on the Isle of Fortuna, and Vergil, for whatever reason, cares enough to get the both of them involved. He seems changed, but his intentions remain unclear and his decisions, obtuse; he's playing his cards too close to his chest for Dante to figure out his game.One thing at least is clear-- whatever Vergil has done, and whatever Vergil is doing, it's stupid, reckless, and has endangered the entire population of a small isolated country. In other words: business as usual.
Relationships: Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Nero & Nero's Mother (Devil May Cry), Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Nero's Mother/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 770
Kudos: 519





	1. Dante's Prologue

Dante was in the middle of grappling with a cantankerous tamagotchi when the phone rang.

"Devil May Cry, and this better be good, my dude, it's one ay-em," he told the receiver, glad for the excuse to put his shitty plastic egg down. It was the actual reason why he was at his desk at 1 a.m., but the caller needn't know.

The tamagotchi beeped loudly as a square poop manifested by it, and Dante almost missed the voice on the other side of the line.

"Dante," said the raspy, nasally voice, and oooooh fuck. Oh shit.

"Aw, shit, it's my bro!" He said, laughing, leaning back on his chair, slapping blindly at the tamagotchi to muffle its chiptune tantrum. "What's up! Long time no see, huh? Like what, five years?"

"Five years," Vergil's voice echoed, ruefully. 

"Five years without a single fucking word from you, you bitch," Dante spat out, against his better judgment. "What now, you inviting me to some other bullshit tower? Some other hell gate? If you wanna jump in, I don't wanna be there to watch it happen."

He wrapped the tamagotchi in an old glove and shoved its screeching translucent butt into a drawer. This was an adult conversation, not for digital baby ears.

"Have you heard of a place called Fortuna?" Vergil said, ignoring that outburst like his usual emotionally constipated self.

"So this really is a party invite, is it?" 

"Do you or do you not know the place?"

"What does it matter? If you're throwing this gauntlet, I'm picking it up. I'll find it, I'll be there." 

" _Dante_."

Dante shut up. Vergil had tinged that old name with some color he did not recognize, but it was far from his usual beige.

This was new.

"Fortuna is an island off the coast of Red Grave," Vergil continued, his voice back to its usual smug didacticism. "It was once ruled by our father. Its populace revere him as a god."

Dante chewed on that for two seconds.

"What?"

"The ruling part is real. I checked the records. How history became religion is unclear, but he wasn't here for it, if it makes you feel better."

"They worship a _demon?_ "

"They call him the Savior," he corrected. "Dante, I would be delighted to teach you all about Fortuna's completely insane scripture and where in its convoluted hierarchy of devils who are actually angels we _probably_ sit, but time is of the essence. Please come to Fortuna."

Dante ran some abstract calculations on Vergil's unusual tone of voice and the weird shit he'd just said. 

"So this is not a party," he asked.

"It is very much a party," Vergil answered. "But I'm not the host. And— I am aware that you have little reason to trust me, considering our last family gathering. This is how seriously I take this upcoming event."

And he spoke the password. 

"Well, that does it," Dante quipped. "You got yourself a professional devil hunter."

"I look forward to witnessing whatever passes for professional behavior in your head," he said, dryly. "Make haste. Lives are at stake."

The line dropped, and Dante tossed his receiver back on its hook with a flourish. Since when did Vergil care about lives? He sure didn't send out any evacuation sirens before summoning the Temen Ni Gru. But then again, Dante hadn't cared either, when that night started. He'd learned to care before it ended. Five years was a long time— maybe even long enough for reality to crack through Vergil's thick skull.

The tamagotchi's muffled bleating was annoyingly loud now that he wasn't focused on the phone. He gave his desk a warning punch, enough to give the infernal plastic critter pause, and then browsed through his devil arms. If Vergil felt the need to call his plus-one, this promised to be one hell of a party, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A month from now, Dante's going to be very upset when he notices he forgot his tamagotchi in that drawer.


	2. Fortuna, Isle of Weird

The ferry to Fortuna hit the docks at the fresh predawn hour of nine-the-fuck-o'clock— a time of the day that Dante would find much less offensive had he slept a wink the previous night. But he'd had to hit his contacts for intel on Fortuna (and wouldn't Lady's bill be a thing to behold, for all that she'd had zero info) as well as track down transportation, and after hours of bike-revving it turned out the ferry ride was too short to squeeze a nap in. 

He fully intended to take his grump out on Vergil, except the asshole was, of course, nowhere to be found.

"Guess I'm sight-seeing!" he told the bright clear sky, attracting some attention from the surrounding foot traffic, and picked a direction at random.

Fortuna was pretty charming, kind of quaint. Most people seemed to be wearing hoods and big baggy clothes, despite the muggy heat. Morrison had only had tourism agency bits to offer by way of intel, but apparently the locals were kind of on the conservative side, the type to pointlessly cover up.

Well, they couldn't get on his case, he had a shirt on. Regrettably.

The familiar prick of a demonic presence tickled his mind, and he turned on his feet without breaking stride, hopped up a wall. Fortuna's streets were narrow, and its squat buildings made roof-hopping a fairly unexciting affair, but it got him moving in a fairly steady beeline. His target was fucking around in the outskirts, where dismal little houses held each other up over alleys in beaten earth. Soon he could see something like a gang of flour sacks prowling around with knives.

He gripped Rebellion and aimed his hit to land right among them, only to be beaten to the punch by— wait— okay, no, yeah, that was the Yamato, it _was_ Vergil after all. He was wearing white and had a hood on but it was Vergil, alright.

Dante landed at his back, right on top of one of the sacks. "Is it Halloween? You look like a ghost."

"Please," he sneered. "I have been reliably informed that I have developed a tan."

"Oh god, who told you that filthy lie?" Dante shot the flour sack at his feet, then kicked another's blade out of the way. "Who came up with such a flagrantly ridiculous tall tale?"

Assorted thuds and dust clouds manifested at his back. "See for yourself," Vergil said, and they turned on cue— Vergil with his scabbard and Dante with Ebony, each hitting one of the other's prey— their arms crossing each other, pushing their sleeves back.

Dante raised an eyebrow, ignored the twitching demon remnants at his feet to really stare at Vergil's arm. He wore a white glove, and his sleeve was also white with some gold piping and a dash of blue, and it certainly made his skin seem more lively. A strip on his wrist even looked very slightly darker than the rest of his arm.

"Well congrats, you're no longer cadaverous," he said, unimpressed. "We're _almost_ the same shade of pink. This place is good for your health."

Vergil barked out a laugh, shot a phantom sword at the critter under his boot. "It's been good, alright," he conceded, "but it could be better. You took your time in coming, brother."

"The sea currents were jammed," Dante shrugged. They'd run out of flour sacks, and civilians were starting to slink out of windows and off roofs. "And this asshole shark kept cutting me off without a turn light. I can't fly, Vergil."

Vergil sighed. "You can't fly," he repeated to himself, softly, hilariously despondent. It was so bizarrely close to friendly ribbing that Dante's wit fled him momentarily, and he could only laugh.

"This the job?" he asked, waving his gun at the ground's general direction.

"Hardly," Vergil scoffed, but then they were accosted by the no doubt confused and curious humans.

" _Captain Vergil!_ " an old woman cried, her hands clasped together, and Dante mouthed _captain_ at Vergil's back in incredulity. "Oh, blessed be the Savior! My daughter said there's been incursions from Pommel to Fuller—"

"Sir Vergil came himself—"

"All the health to the Lady, Sir Vergil!"

"Who're you?" this one was directed at Dante, and Vergil answered with "My brother from the mainland" before he could think of a quip; he was then immediately showered with back pats.

"I cannot linger— there is much work to be done today," Vergil was telling the excitable little mob, smooth and practiced and at ease and _what the hell._ "An important ceremony is underway at the Castle which many forces would see tampered with. I strongly suggest you remain indoors for the duration, for your own safety, and avoid the Mitis Forest at all costs."

There was much nodding and wishes of health and luck and safety, along with mentions of a lady he could only assume was not the one he knew, and eventually the small crowd dispersed. Vergil immediately failed to clarify anything, instead beckoning with a small gesture and shooting off on his way.

They came across other pockets of demonic activity, each demon weirder than the next, and sometimes a group of weirdly blasé locals would surround Vergil with words of thanks and admiration. Vergil... had never seemed like the type to go for flattery, but now Dante couldn't help but remember the fact that, apparently, these people thought their dad was God.

No one had called Vergil "son of god" yet, but Dante was bracing himself for it nevertheless. There was a lot he didn't know about his twin. What was one more thing?

"Vergil, what the _shit_ ," Dante said, when he found himself being led into a... a weird tropical jungle wildly misplaced from its usual latitude. "Like seriously. This shit right here—"

"It's the Mitis Forest," Vergil said, and kept stomping through the underbrush.

"Well I feel informed now!" Dante said, very loudly, enough to attract some more dumb flour sacks. "You hear me, Verge?" He shot one out of the air. "This is the sound of me feeling _extremely informed—_ "

"Oh, will you _shut up_ ," Vergil snapped, laying a hand on Yamato's pommel— and of course, stealing all the kills in the blink of an eye.

"And _now_ you decide to show off—"

"Dante, for _fuck's sake_ ," Vergil snarled. "I'm _trying_ to keep a low profile."

"Oh my god, seriously—"

"And so should you."

"Well, sure ain't nobody calling me _Captain_ out there," Dante drawled, emphatic and mocking.

Vergil rolled his eyes to the canopy. "Is there an extra tax I must pay in order for you to take this seriously?"

"It would help if I knew what _this_ was!"

"I brought you here to _show_ you!" Vergil waved the Yamato's scabbard at a half-seen clearing up ahead. "This will take long enough. The less words you need to decode the better!"

"Did you just call me an idiot, brother?" Dante asked; Vergil merely resumed his trek, and Dante skipped ahead to better smirk at him. "Me, the one who _didn't_ almost cause an apocalypse?"

"Please, Dante, idiocy comes in many shapes," Vergil answered, without missing a beat; he passed right by a stunned Dante and into the clearing. "I am merely accounting for yours. Now come here and step no further than this line." 

Dante did as he was told, staring wide-eyed at Vergil with no attempt at subtlety. Vergil himself had a rueful little smirk in his lips, as if guessing at his surprise.

"Priorities change," he said, softly, then pointed into the clearing. "Now, see that carved tree?"

'Carved' was a serious understatement— it had been expertly sliced into an entirely new shape, a weird totem, branches severed and relocated none too gently back into the bark; it looked like a weird, spidery, leafy umbrella. And it was covered in bloody scrawls.

"You did that," Dante murmured, hands tensing for a quick draw.

"I did," Vergil nodded, without so much as a token denial. "That one, and nine others. I prepared five at first, and five more after our call. And you'll understand why, if you step— _carefully_ — close to it. Pay attention, and be ready to run back. I haven't evaluated the situation since yesterday; it may have deteriorated." 

The 'situation', huh. Dante strolled into the clearing, senses primed and ready for anything— a trap, a stab in the back. It was hardly Vergil's way, but neither was public speaking, and yet.

What he hadn't expected, but quickly caught onto, was the steadily growing drain on his vitality as he approached the tree— and its sudden, sharp, uncomfortable increase as soon as he stepped past it.

"Oof!" he leapt a couple of paces back, just enough to shake the surprise off. "Well, that's one hell of a vampiric something-or-other right there. Is it the target?"

He got a forceful yank at his arm for an answer, and by the time the trees unblurred, they were both out of the clearing, and Vergil was completely ignoring the pistol barrel pressed under his chin.

Instead he glared down at Dante, grim and— oh. Not a glare. That was concern.

"I told you to be—"

Dante pushed back to his feet, with a light laugh; whatever had been stolen was already replenished. "Relax, Verge. I'm all good."

"Maybe," Vergil stepped back to give him space. "But now you've handed a feast to the Tree."

Dante looked back at the leafy totem. "I thought that was a barrier seal."

"It is," Vergil confirmed. "I'm talking about the hell tree that is growing inside Fortuna Castle as we speak— the Jubokko."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante: what's going on  
> Vergil: well there's this tree  
> Dante: no, i mean with you going native  
> Vergil: check this out *pretends to remove thumb*  
> Dante: that's not  
> Vergil: shut up and look at the tree


	3. A treatise on demon botany

As they checked the other totems, Vergil gave Dante a quick overview on Hell Trees, of which the Jubokko, it turned out, was but a minor one. They were all vampiric in some way, and the Jubokko was only unusual in that it _also_ absorbed energy from its surroundings, along with the usual stabbing and eating things for their blood.

A select few of these trees, the Jubokko included, bore fruit that could increase a demon's power.

"One in particular was of great concern to our father," said Vergil, as they cleaned up a bunch of weird floating grasshoppers in ghost blankets that was hanging too close to one totem for comfort. "It grows every few thousand years, its roots reaching into the human world to feed, and if allowed to grow unchecked its single fruit may empower a demon to the level of Mundus himself."

"Power, huh," Dante said, neutrally, but from his look of contempt Vergil must have caught on to his implication. 

"Undeserved, unworthy, honorless, _stolen_ power," Vergil sneered. "Absolutely not, Dante. All I ever sought was what was mine by right. I cannot fathom falling so low as to ever consider stooping to such an abomination, and if I do, you're welcome to kill whatever husk yet pretends to be me. No," he raised his chin. "It'll be our duty to cut it down if it ever regrows."

"Well, that's interesting and all, but why even bring it up if it's not around? What's it have to do with the Jubokko?"

Vergil raised the Yamato's pommel towards a mountain, slowly looming its way past their path, and the vague shape of a castle upon it.

"That was once the seat of our father's rule," he said. "Now, the Vicar of Sparda resides within, the highest authority in this island and its religion. He is a man named Sanctus, referred to as _His Holiness_ by his followers, and is anything but."

"Is a priest ever?" Dante asked, eyeing the castle and trying to picture ever living surrounded by so much empty space. It gave him anxiety just to imagine the echoes.

"I've met a few," Vergil said, chuckling to himself. "I even have my own choice for a replacement, should Sanctus do us the favor of getting himself killed."

"Dude," Dante stared at him.

"He is—" Vergil hesitated, "he is like Arkham. Arkham, but lesser— less cunning, less powerful, less psychotic. But close enough. The Qliphoth was his first pick, but its uncertain timing and unpredictable location was an inconvenience. Thus he settled for the Jubokko."

"And you let him because...?"

Vergil stopped, grasped the Yamato with both hands, stared into the air. He pressed his lips a couple of times.

"Idiocy," he said, eventually, and then shook his head, flapped a hand as if shooing away a hovering specter. "I spent some time in this land, before the Temen ni Gru. It's one of the greatest remaining sources of information on our father's past deeds, if you're willing to sift through the worshipful drivel. I met this fool at the time, defeated him in battle, but left him his miserable life. He seemed harmless, his ambitions almost endearing in their pettiness."

He resumed his walk, a rueful smirk in his lips. "See, Dante, where Arkham desired nothing more than to revel unchecked in his evil, Sanctus instead yearns for praise and adoration. His plan, back then and still now, was to imperil the entire island, and then sweep gloriously to its rescue. To become a new Savior. Somewhere in the Order's headquarters there is a half-built statue of our father, gigantic, that is to be made mobile by the enslavement and harvesting of thousands of minor demons— all under his control, of course. But it will still require the blood of Sparda in order to be manipulated, since so much of its construction was copied from his works. And that is where I am supposed to come in, once it is finished."

"You— as in," Dante pointed, "you said you were okay with this completely crazy-pants narcissist plan? That it?"

"Rather," Vergil said, his smugness factor shooting to the heavens, "I said nothing, and simply allowed him the comfort of his erroneous assumptions. I try not to lie— I am... unpracticed." He looked very awkward for a moment. "But I am not above letting others fool themselves, if I do not owe them truth."

"Okay, so you lied to the guy," Dante chuckled, enjoying Vergil's grimace immensely, "but my question stands: why bother."

"Things... happened," Vergil mumbled, sending Dante into a longer fit of laughter. "Oh, quiet, you," he chuckled. "It is such an absurdly long story, I can hardly believe it has been but a few years."

"Five?" Dante offered.

"Less than that," Vergil said, and then continued quickly, as if eager to get through the topic. "It was some time before I convinced myself to return. I wished only to further consult father's notes. But the Order monopolizes the original manuscripts, and I had no desire whatsoever to deal with Sanctus. I was also— I also..." he hesitated again. "I had further suspicions I wished to investigate. Nothing relevant—" he waved a dismissive hand— "I turned out to be wrong on the matter, to my relief. But discreetly joining the Order seemed like a good idea at the time. It—"

" _What_ ," Dante blurted out.

"It gave me access to the relevant buildings, and close your mouth or a bee will fly in," Vergil scoffed. "Not that I had much time to research. Things _happened_. I will be delighted to entertain you later with my tragic misadventures, you will find them hilarious, I'm sure. But as it happened I rose through the ranks legitimately, which was just as well; once I faced Sanctus again, I still owed him nothing. He was only too happy to endear himself to me. And I—" he gritted his teeth, "fool that I am, I told him of the Jubokko."

Dante rolled his eyes. "Oh, great, awesome. So it's all your fault, _again_."

"Yes," Vergil conceded, through gritted teeth. "And thus I swallowed my pride, and called you here."

Vergil stopped in the path, his face sour like he'd breathed in that bee he'd warned Dante about. His pride was probably giving him an acid reflux or something.

His throat moved, and he resumed his stride.

"Normally," he continued, "the Jubokko is the weakest of the Hell Trees, both in the damage it can cause and the fruit it can deliver, and if no flesh or blood is at hand for consumption, it can but resort to passively absorbing life from its surroundings. The soil, the air. And as you felt, from otherwise out-of-reach living beings."

"That sure as fuck wasn't passive," Dante pointed out. "Pretty sure it would drop a normal person down flat in a second. Also why the heck are we going back to town."

"Because a horrid little man felt a need to _improve_ the tree's reach," Vergil snarled. "And I will not let it feed off of you. We're taking the ferry to headquarters, and you'll wear my extra uniform."

Dante clutched his coat. " _No_ ," he said.

Vergil ignored him. "The uniforms of the Order confer a great many protections, including against this tree— once you have it on we'll be able to maneuver safely around it."

"No way in hell. And you still haven't said—"

Vergil raised the back of his hand fast enough that, were Dante less keyed up, he might have gotten his lips slapped. They'd reached some farmland, peppered with charming little houses; there were people about, looking curiously at them, and some seemed to recognize Vergil on sight.

Vergil strode past the fenced-in crops, giving words of warning here and there: avoid the forest, things are afoot, the Order has it contained there, send warning if anything slips out. A man dressed in what looked like farming clothes mixed with some white uniform approached Vergil with entirely too much certainty in his stride, and then fell into step alongside them.

"Two incursions in the area, sir," he muttered to Vergil, only shooting Dante the briefest glance. "Groups of three and four, all very weakened."

"They're fleeing the forest," Vergil muttered back. "More will come, even further drained. They might be desperate." 

"What _are_ they fleeing?" the man asked, sharply, glancing askance at Vergil.

"An Order experiment," Vergil answered, staring straight ahead and not breaking his stride. "Which I am afraid is overwhelming its constraints."

The man shot Dante another look. "I am available for duty if required," he said.

"Then keep your uniform at the ready," Vergil said. "Its wards are fully functional against this threat. I double-checked."

"Understood," the man said, falling back. Dante raised his brows at Vergil, and waited as patiently as he could until they reached one of the paved streets leading back into town.

"This island is particularly susceptible to incursions through the veil," Vergil said, eventually. "Its inhabitants are fully aware of the supernatural and the Underworld. They worship our father for a reason."

"You're still not saying—"

"Dante—"

"Don't _Dante_ me—"

"I am playing an _extremely_ boring game with the Order, Dante."

"Yeah, and I'm asking you why."

"Things happened."

"That doesn't explain shit-all."

"I like this island, Dante."

Dante shut up.

"Despite myself and against my better judgment," Vergil continued, "I have grown very attached to it, and to its people, blinkered as they are. I have made a life here, and even friends— once a luxury I thought I'd never afford."

Only Vergil would act like friends were some premium merchandise instead of a state naturally obtained by two parties when they failed to be stunted jerkwads for half a miserable hour.

"As such," he continued, oblivious to Dante's harsh judgment, "I would like it very much if it were not too violently destabilized by such ugly events as, say, a sudden power-grab by an outsider making outrageous claims about his heritage. Or by the horrifying murder of its beloved and popular religious leader by decapitation." 

"What about by bullet to the head?"

"I've imagined it, and even dreamed it, Dante. It would make things so much simpler right now. But not for this land, in the long run. See that abbey."

The Yamato rose to indicate an ugly, gray building, solid stone on stone, adorned with weather-beaten and pigeon-soiled carvings.

"It is the Chantry of the Candelary, where nuns study the word of the Savior and pray for his continued protection and benevolence. And there," the Yamato moved slightly, in the direction of a spindly tower, "is the Oracularium, where young women were kept in starvation bordering on _death_ —" Vergil's eyes flashed with suppressed fury— "for the unforgivable crime of socially embarrassing their wealthy parents."

"Um, Vergil—"

"Their delirious rambles were written down and carefully sifted through for convenient prophecies to be relayed in sermons—"

"You okay?"

" _But it's over now, Dante!_ " Vergil turned to look at him, eyes wide and wild and flashing with something undecipherable. "I stopped it. I brought it to light. And I needed not shed even a drop of blood. Once their hellish treatment came to light, none could turn a blind eye without losing face, not even the oblivious sisters who lived their lives in the same building. Now, to send a wayward daughter to the Chantry is social suicide. And these people did it all on their own. I needed only pull a thread, and their fury unraveled this _travesty_ all by itself!"

"That's— that's super cool!" Dante nodded, feeling something distressingly close to fright, which in the context of Nerdlord Vergil was simply too uncomfortable to countenance. "Um, good work?"

Vergil stepped back, took a _very_ forced breath, and Dante resolved to pretend like he knew what the hell that had been about. So Vergil was passionate about girls locked in towers, that was... good? An improvement? Wait, asshole still hadn't explained the goddamn tree.

This seemed like a terrible moment to bring that up, though.

"I may have been... too emboldened," Vergil said slowly, taking a heavy step back on his way, and Dante followed, evaluating his mood very carefully. "The hell fruits are useless on humans, Dante. Their properties need be quickened by demon blood. But the local grimoires only refer to the nuisance these trees and their demonic pursuers cause the human world. It seemed like the perfect trap— to have Sanctus enact this risky plan for nothing, in front of his near-worshipful inner circle. He puts on a good display of piety and infallibility, and many otherwise honorable knights believe his mad demon-infested-statue plan serves a greater cause. A costly failure, early in the scheme, might wake them up."

Well, finally he was talking about the damn tree. "I'm sensing a 'but' here," Dante pointed out.

"But the Order Alchemists are far madder than I gave them credit," Vergil muttered. They'd reached a market street, and people parted to let Vergil through, but the area was still rather packed. Still, Vergil needn't point; the black, gigantic monolith stood out like a sore thumb in the quaint town, all but screaming _demonic_ in reverberating gales.

"That is the 'True Hell Gate', a conduit between worlds that father sealed," Vergil murmured. "It figures heavily in Sanctus' plans, and has been extensively studied. It can be opened by the Yamato, and thus I have become rather popular amid the Order's high echelon."

"I swear to fuck, Vergil," Dante muttered back, feeling bone-tired.

"I have no intentions of opening this thing," Vergil muttered back. "And in any case, the Savior Project is not ready for this step. But the Order has managed to create lesser copies to draw their material from. Powered by middling demon arms, they can but allow the riff-raff across, which the Order captures and imprisons in droves. A small donation of worthless leftovers from battles past served as further proof of my— commitment— to the cause."

He pressed his lips together, again.

"Originally, I meant to have them used as the Jubokko's source," he muttered. "To drain those arms for the useless fruit, dealing two threats a single killing blow. But unbeknown to me, the sequestered demons were also being used for another, far more sinister purpose."

"Dear god, get to the point," Dante mumbled.

"They infuse humans with demonic souls," Vergil dropped. "That's it, that's the point. The process is experimental, but Sanctus underwent it ahead of schedule for this very purpose." His eyes narrowed, flashed with contempt and anger. "He is but a devil in human guise, now. The fruit _will_ work if he eats it. And his Chief Alchemist thought to spare the gates' power sources by sacrificing the island itself. And all of this only came to my knowledge yesterday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante: so once again everything is your fault  
> Vergil: yes but i legit didn't mean it  
> Dante: want me to kill the guy  
> Vergil: yes, but don't. i just learned about political intrigue  
> Dante: how's that working out  
> Vergil: i called you here. take a wild fuckin guess


	4. That which digs its Roots

"...well," Dante said, after some contemplation. "You fucked up."

"You don't have to tell me that," Vergil's voice was strangled with something surprisingly close to contrition.

"Can't believe you went to all that trouble only for some old farts to pull a fast one on you," Dante continued, determined to derive as much entertainment as he could out of Vergil's embarrassment.

"Ah, Dante," Vergil sighed, deep and melodramatic. "The truth is so much _stupider_."

And then the asshole resumed his walk.

"Vergil, you can't just say that and not deliver!" Dante called out, indignant, as they wove through alleys. He could see the ocean glinting through buildings, and a pier; if Vergil sat on the tale until the ferry departed and then the trip turned out to last thirty seconds or something, Dante was going to _scream_.

But there was no ferry on the quay, and since the pier they were standing on was empty, Vergil took mercy upon him. 

"I learned my lesson from Arkham," he said, eyes glaring ahead even as he leaned against a mooring pole, more casual than Dante had ever seen him. "And Sanctus sees his greed reflected in every shadow he spots. He expects betrayal from me, yes, and plans to betray me in return. But this had nothing to do with his suspicions, and everything to do with his Chief Alchemist's imaginary competition against me."

"Come again?" Dante laughed in almost giddy disbelief.

"I designed a perfectly serviceable and elegant self-contained ritual," Vergil grumbled. "It layered all required functions in a single circle taking up less than five square meters, but Agnus, that _little worm_ ," he sneered, "submitted that deactivating the gates would cause an unacceptable delay in the Savior project. And then he presented his replacement array at the last minute, including a sharp augmentation of the tree's effects, and it was... _accepted_."

Vergil looked as offended as if his entry had gotten snubbed at some science fair. 

"So you're telling me that it wasn't even the big guy's decision to eat the whole island?" Dante raised a brow. "He just went along with it?"

"Agnus vastly underreported the damage his design would cause, but— I suspect Sanctus would have deemed the losses acceptable regardless. Agnus may be a worthless insect, but he knows how to appeal to Sanctus' ego." Vergil sneered again. "His _mess_ of a ritual is theoretically limited to the uninhabited surroundings of Lamina Peak, and his strategy relies on opening the two gates encompassed in its radius and having the Jubokko feed off the invading demons. The results are as you saw— demons fleeing into settlements, the forest being drained of its vitality. I've been raising totems like a madman." He sighed, and, for one sharp moment, looked weary beyond belief. "I hope I was in time to salvage the crops." 

"If it's this bad, why not just— I dunno, evacuate everyone?"

Vergil stiffened. "Dante—"

"No, hear me out, like— I get that these people live in the past and seeing an underwear billboard might, like, shock the dentures out of some old ladies or something, but—"

" _Dante_ ," he said again, less angry than merely tired; his head drooped in misery.

"Do we even _want_ these people around that huge slab, like, even if it's closed? Can you guarantee they won't yoink the Yamato through some dumb trickery or something? Why not put that baby scheming to use getting these people to run the hell out of dodge? I'm not gonna lie, everything you said you've been doing sounds like a gigantic waste of time to me—"

"Dante..." Vergil sighed, let his head fall back, and Dante stopped talking. This was a Vergil he had never before met, tired, hesitant, unhappy, and somehow unabashed about expressing any of those things, and it told its own sordid tale of the last few years, and the _things_ that had _happened_. 

Dante waited, and although Vergil's eyes never strayed from the clear sky, his throat constricted, visibly, as if he were swallowing a rock; and Dante knew he would speak before his lips even parted.

He whispered like a man defeated, and Dante heard him just fine— heard him, but could swear his ears were playing tricks, because it sounded like Vergil had just said—

"...I can't uproot my family."

That was, of course, when the ferry honked its arrival; the perfect comedic counterpoint to Vergil's absurd admission. And like an asshole, he immediately jumped and scurried up the prow before it docked, because god forbid he drop a bomb and then follow up on it. 

Dante hung back, waiting patiently for the ferry to stop and disgorge its previous passengers. They were all in variants of that white uniform, which certainly explained why they'd had no company at the pier. Some guards eyed him funny as he boarded, but he was otherwise undisturbed; Vergil must have given some kind of warning about him. 

Vergil was standing by the ship's railing, staring into the ocean with hands crossed at his back, all maritime dignity. Dante walked up to his side, acting casual and very emphatically not asking questions. 

In the end, Vergil cracked first. Literally: he burst into sudden, almost pained laughter, and leaned on the railing with both hands, one of them still clutching Yamato. 

"Aah," he sighed, as if he'd just been told a refreshing joke. "I had sworn to not bring them up until the crisis was over, if even then— but now that I have, it's all I want to talk about."

"A family, huh," Dante mused. "Would never have pegged you for the type."

"Me neither," Vergil said, softly. 

"So, things happened."

"They did," Vergil said. "Very suddenly, intensely, and at the furthest edge of my control. I hope you understand, then."

Not really, no. In fact it made the whole scheming and politicking and backstabbing sound even more reckless and pointless. 

"So, you wanna talk about them?" He asked instead, since Vergil was so obviously angling for an interrogation. 

Vergil smiled down, awkwardly, opened his mouth, closed it, then bowed onto the railing, his forehead touching the lightly stained steel bar. His back muscles tensed up in bunches under his white coat. 

When he straightened back up his face looked only barely wrecked. 

"I have... a wife and a son," he started, and let go of the railing to dig into his coat— leaving a pair of indents behind. 

He opened a huge bulky wallet and extended a picture to Dante, his eyes fixed onto the waves below. 

"This is Nero," he said, his voice small. 

Dante took the picture. A small white-haired kid sat in front of a patterned cloth, wearing a painfully unfashionable hat and an ill-fitting vest in faded plaid print. He looked a bit mulish, as if he were humoring the photographer against his better judgment, but despite the very Vergil-like expression the kid couldn't be more than three. The clothes and staging made it look like a school picture, too, very old-fashioned, very Fortuna. 

It couldn't possibly be the best picture Vergil had of his son, but it certainly was the one he happened to have in his fantastically ugly wallet. 

"Cute kid," Dante said, handing the photo back. 

Vergil mumbled an awkward thanks and stashed it carefully in the folds of his reinforced leather monstrosity. His hands were very deliberately steady. 

No pictures of the wife were forthcoming. 

"What's his mom like?" Dante asked, eying Vergil carefully, but his reaction gave nothing away; if anything he looked more focused, even a little proud. 

"Isobella," he said, and his eyes glinted, sharpened; he raised his chin and pressed his lips, almost as if savoring the name. "She is a fantastic woman. More than that I find hard to convey without sounding like cheap flattery. It'll be my pleasure to introduce you once it's safe— she is sure to find you amusing."

Dante gave him his most roguish smile. "I try," he said. "How did you two meet? How did all that _happening_ take place? You're leaving me in suspense here."

"No time," Vergil said, turning briskly away from the railing, much as Dante had expected him to; another pier had come into view, servicing a white fortress of sorts. The forest loomed behind it, and past the forest Lamina Peak rose like a bad omen against the afternoon sky. 

There had been plenty of time, still. The pier approached slowly, and there was maneuvering to be done before it could even begin to dock. Vergil could have given him an abbreviated account, or teased him with context-less info, but he chose instead to play things close to his chest. 

A fantastic woman he was proud of, and a cute kid he could barely seem to talk about. A mediocre but carefully kept photograph. Some bullshit scheme to, apparently, erode some corrupt priest's support base. 

Dante enumerated the possibilities in his head. 

One: Vergil's kid was a hostage, and he was an unwilling part of the dumb tree plan. He tried to sabotage it discreetly, but was outmaneuvered. Likely. 

Two: both wife and child were hostages. Less likely, given his steadiness when speaking of her, but maybe he just trusted that she could take care of herself in a prickly situation. 

Three: There was no wife, and the photo was just a very good painting. Vergil's empty body was currently being piloted by an alien trans-dimensional entity, and this whole thing was an elaborate trap. Not likely, except for the fact that, having gone to the trouble of calling Dante and walking him around the city in view of all sorts of people, Vergil might as well just have told him about any hostage situation outright.

He'd certainly wasted enough time talking about trees.

Possibility four was that everything was fine aside from the Tree thing and Vergil was just being a goddamn drama queen for no reason. Also surprisingly likely.

The ferry docked, and Dante obediently followed his brother down the gangplank. The fortress before him was an austere, undecorated white, belied by the near palatial courtyard and staircase that led to it. He contemplated the few narrow windows on its walls as he considered possibility five.

Vergil had been in on the dumb tree plan from the start, got outmaneuvered exactly as he had described, and somehow that blunder put his kid in danger, no kidnapping involved. 

Dante could see Vergil resorting to calling him for a child's sake, then talking down his own part in this brand new, localized apocalypse for the sake of ensuring Dante's cooperation. It's not like he knew for sure that Dante would rescue the innocent son of a relapsed genocidal dumbfuck. 

Oh well. He'd save the kid, then the island, then kick everyone's asses and Vergil's too. That was, assuming this particular guess was correct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: I don't want to talk about my family.  
> Dante: Okay  
> Vergil:  
> Vergil:  
> Vergil: ........please ask me about my family  
> Dante: aight tell about your family  
> Vergil: I love my family bye *leaps into the ocean*


	5. A treatise on Tamagotchis

The jumble of confused but unmistakably demonic auras within the fortress suggested further additions to the list of Things Vergil Was Fucking Up And Or With, but if any of it were his doing, he wasn't spilling the beans. 

The place was nearly empty, staffed with but a few hooded, wandering knights— some of whom nodded respectfully to Vergil, none of which paid Dante any notice. A few of them were more carefully shrouded— hoods pulled low over masked helmets, bandages visible in the gap between sleeves and gloves— and they were the ones giving off most of the weird, off-kilter sensation permeating the building. 

Vergil spoke softly with all of the latter and some of the former, in low tones, about weird military shit Dante didn't feel like decoding. Patrol this, guard that, blah blah, this quarter, that street. He seemed to be readying them for shit to go down, at least. Some asked respectfully about the Preparations for the Ceremony, and others asked about the Lady; Vergil gave vague reassurances about both, apparently mindful of Dante's presence— not that he let on that it was Dante, but Dante was pretty sure that, yes, Vergil was being vague because Dante.

Vergil eventually led him to, of all things, a completely mundane locker room.

"Not sure what I expected," Dante confessed, as Vergil opened one of many perfectly average lockers and pulled out a neatly folded change of uniform.

He just handed him the pile then stepped back to wait, arms crossed, frown firmly in place as Dante raised a white coat.

"Oh, this smells nice," he said, with some surprise, and Vergil choked a disbelieving laugh. "No, really," Dante sniffed the front of the coat a second, then a third time, trying to place the scent. "Is this a wife thing? Oh well." He whipped it a couple times to straighten the few visible creases. "Can't I just wear this on top?"

Vergil shook his head emphatically. 

"The uniform—" he started, but Dante interrupted it.

"Yeah, I know, wards, blah blah. I don't sense anything special here, though."

"There is nothing to sense," Vergil said. "Rather than the uniform conferring protection in itself, the _ritual_ was designed to recognize the uniform. Any who wear these are spared the Order's traps and spells, the current one included."

"Well, shit," Dante sighed, and with an ache in his heart he began to unbuckle his holsters and empty his pockets— 

His guts froze when he checked a particular pocket and found it empty.

" _Shit_ ," he said again, with feeling. "Oh no, goddamn— goddamn it," he checked more pockets, "no, no, no—" 

"Dante?" Vergil approached, a hint of alarm in his voice, and Dante froze again.

"Um," he said, his dread giving way to embarrassment. "It's nothing, really, don't worry. Forget it!"

He forced some cheer into his voice as he peeled his coat off, only for Vergil to take it off his hands with a flat, unamused stare.

"If I hear you happened to forget some fundamental devil-hunting tool—"

"You won't, because I didn't," Dante spat back. "It's nothing, okay? It's just personal."

He regretted those words before he was done speaking, but the damage was done; Vergil's eyes widened and he almost took a step back, his hand rising to pat blindly at his gold-buttoned chest— where, Dante knew, a scarlet gem was sure to be stashed.

" _No!_ " he called out immediately, his own anxiety spiking in tandem, and tugged his gem out from under his shirt as proof. "Hell no, Vergil, no way. I don't take this off even for showering."

Vergil's shoulders lowered. He didn't even criticize Dante for showering with the gem. He probably did it, too.

"Well," he sighed deeply, then drew himself back up. "What was it, then?"

"What?" Dante paused in the process of toeing his boots off.

Vergil's eyes narrowed. "That you left behind."

Shit, he hadn't forgotten about that. Not fair, Dante already had.

"You— you're gonna laugh," Dante said, and his embarrassment reared back up with a vengeance. Fucking hell, what a dumb thing to say. Now there was no way he was gonna drop it.

And he certainly did not. "You're already laughable," he retorted. "It never gave you pause."

Dante kicked his boot off furiously, aiming it straight into Vergil's open locker. "It's a tamagotchi, alright? Are you happy?"

Vergil squinted. "A _what?_ "

"A tama— oh my god, you don't know what a tamagotchi is." Dante let his foot drop onto the cold damp floor, staring at Vergil in awe, before catching himself. "It's— um— it's like a cherry bomb with holy water in—" 

"No it isn't," Vergil interrupted him. "You already said it's not a devil-hunting tool."

"I said it wasn't _fundamental_ ," Dante argued back. "Anyway—"

"Tamago means 'egg' in Japanese," Vergil continued, his eyes taking on a dangerous glint.

"Why do you even know Japanese?" Dante protested.

"Why, indeed," Vergil said, dryly, his hand resting on Yamato's hilt.

"Fine, it's an egg," Dante huffed, kicking his other boot off. "It's a little dragon egg I'm rearing. Very fragile." 

"I see," Vergil drawled, disbelief dripping from his voice. "A fragile dragon's egg. Nothing important, just _personal_ , in your words."

"It's a _toy_ , alright?" Dante admitted, finally, throwing his hands up. "It's a dumb little egg-shaped toy with a little screen and a critter made of pixels which you're supposed to take care of, and when it poops you hit a button to clean its poop, and when it's sad you hit a button to play with it, and when it's dirty you hit a button to give it a bath, and sometimes it'll beep non-stop at one in the morning for no reason you can fathom and you need to shove it in a drawer to focus on your _stupid brother on the phone!!_ Are you happy now? It's not important, it's _stupid!!_ "

Dante hated nothing so much as the way his nose grew progressively more clogged during his impromptu rant, until he sounded like Vergil to his own ears. Stupid, stupid, stupid tamagotchi. How long had it been? It was probably— oh god, he didn't know what a tamagotchi death screen looked like, he didn't want to know. He'd have to reset it before he saw the screen, he couldn't even handle the thought of it.

Thinking of his little critter alone in a drawer made him feel like a monster. Fuck, their last interaction had been, what, Dante smacking the table before fetching his weapons? He sniffed, avoided Vergil's eyes. He was going to laugh, like it was funny, and the worst thing was that it was actually funny and Dante couldn't even blame him for it. 

"Oh," Vergil said, softly, and Dante glanced at him in surprise— only to find his face was filled with a gentle, almost pitying sympathy. 

"Uhhh," it was Dante's turn to step back in consternation. 

"No, I understand," Vergil continued, his eyes growing distant. "How ingenious... a toy that teaches you to be responsible. To care for something helpless."

He shook Dante's coat, then began to slowly fold it, turning to his locker with measured steps. 

"One cannot help but grow attached," he said, softly, thoughtfully, "when one finds oneself caring for something helpless. Even if it cannot respond. Perhaps especially then."

He sat Dante's coat carefully onto a shelf in his locker, adjusted his discarded boots, and Dante thought back to that ugly photo of the ill-dressed kid and felt like a chode of the highest order. Here he was, freaking out over a tamagotchi, after an entire day of looking down on Vergil for being several shades of dumb about an actual, real goddamn kid. 

He was a tool.

With that new understanding of himself to chew on, he undressed in silence and wore the white uniform without complaint. It wasn't actually uncomfortable, all things considered. He and Vergil had slightly different physiques— developed from different fighting styles— but the size and most of the measuring still fit him perfectly. The thing hadn't been designed with a gun harness in mind, but Dante managed to adapt his with little difficulty; Vergil, too, was buckling a similar-looking harness on his back— for some weird chunky sword with what looked like a small trumpet attached— so that explained that. 

The weirdest part was turning to the mirror over the sink and seeing what basically amounted to a Vergil with his hair down.

"Yeah, I don't like this," Dante said to his reflection, watching as his now completely one-hundred-percent undeniable twin folded his clothes and stashed them in his nondescript locker.

His eyes caught on a forgotten comb, lying in a small puddle in the sink's built-in soap dish. These guys were so backwards they didn't even have dispensers, he thought, as he picked the wet comb and ran it through his hair.

"Dante!" Vergil said from his back, sounding thoroughly scandalized.

"What?" Dante asked cheekily, combing his hair back. Hm... no.

"You don't know where that's been!" He said, horrified.

Dante paused in his combing to sniff the thing. "Someone's shampooed hair," he concluded, resuming his side-part. "Free washing, basically."

"You're disgusting," Vergil sneered. "Why are you even doing this?"

"I feel weird in this getup," Dante mumbled, pouting a little. "So I thought maybe I'll feel less weird if I lean into it."

The side-part wasn't too bad, if he combed it so it arched over his forehead and curled down towards an eye, instead of slicking it against his skull. It gave him that certain punchable _je-ne-sais-quoi_ that was Vergil's brand, but without making him look like a copycat; more importantly, it looked like he was wearing the uniform on purpose, and also like he still had a smidgen of style left. 

He relaxed his face into a neutral mask, flattened his brows a little.

There we go. He was now Vergil's equally pretentious little brother, instead of his much cooler twin.

"How is it?" He turned to Vergil with a grin, then repeated the neutral face.

Vergil considered him for half a second. "Soulless," was his verdict. "Please don't ever do that again."

He smacked the locker closed, pocketed his key, and led his brand new doppelgänger down through the Order's headquarters and onto a bridge. 

Beyond the bridge was the forest. And even though it was summer, the slopes descending from the snowy ridges of Lamina Peak were turning red.

"This would look pretty good if it weren't so shitty," Dante mumbled.

"The forest itself is tropical," Vergil muttered back, "but the trees on the slope are evergreen. This does not bode well."

They crossed the empty bridge in silence. The two guards posted at its end glanced at them and did a double-take.

Once past the bridge, Vergil led Dante into the remnants of some ancient road. Here, too, there was a totem, albeit not in Vergil's improvised style; and once past it his claim about the uniform turned out to have been correct— Dante could see and feel everything about him being drained, from browning leaves to collapsed animals, but the effect sidestepped him quite neatly. 

"Okay, then, what's the plan?" Dante asked, once they were in deep enough to be completely out of hearing range.

"The Jubokko is at its most frail when its fruit is about to mature," said Vergil. "It puts its everything into completing its progeny. Anything can lead it to its death at this point, from loud sounds to plucking the fruit even a moment too soon. This would also weaken the fruit itself considerably."

"What, really? Any old bang and it keels over?"

"That the tree drains almost everything around itself may be for this reason, as well," Vergil said. "To discourage or outright kill such sources of disturbance."

"You don't need me here for _that_ ," Dante pointed out.

"No," Vergil admitted. "But I do need you here. So much can go wrong, Dante. I'm not taking any chances. Agnus' ritual does not account for the tree's sudden demise, and its consequences may range from open gates swarming with healthy demons to a cascade of unforeseen magical effects on everything within its radius. And lastly," he glanced at Dante, a smirk gracing his lips. "I would like to maintain my good standing with the Order, if possible. They know I have a brother, and they know this brother is, shall we say, a loose cannon of sorts."

"So... you want me to get in trouble so you won't?" Dante squinted at Vergil in a big show of suspicion. 

Vergil's smirk grew. "What are little brothers for?" He focused on the road ahead— they were approaching some sort of abandoned church, now— and his face sobered. "Even then, that is our best case scenario. I do not expect the outcome to be so optimistic. You sensed the knights within the Headquarter buildings, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Dante nodded, grimly. "They felt like demons, but in a weird, gumbo way."

This surprised a laugh out of Vergil. " _Gumbo?_ " He repeated, incredulously, and Dante shrugged at him. "How oddly appropriate," Vergil shook his head to himself. "Those are the more fortunate victims of failed ascension ceremonies. They are still functional, but under that uniform, they are simply too deformed to blend in among humans again."

"The ceremony where you shove souls into—"

"Yes," Vergil cut him off, his jaw tensing. 

The dilapidated church had a back gate, but Vergil elected to lead him around it instead, in an obviously longer path. Its surroundings as well as its courtyard did turn out to be infested by drained demons, who pounced on them in crazy, starved desperation; the two easily dispatched the bunch and left their disintegrating carcasses behind. 

"Successful ceremonies allow their subjects to shift between their original human shapes and a false devil trigger at will," Vergil said, resuming his thoughts at last. "And the truly botched ceremonies result in... madness, horror and tears. Conveniently," his eyes narrowed, "there has been a trend of late wherein the more loyal subjects ascend smoothly, and their sharper, more curious or more cynical brethren do _not_."

Vergil held a moment of silence, strangely solemn.

"There have been several such cases in these last months," he said at last. "But I was not there for containment in all of them. I do not know how the research team normally handles them."

He glanced at Dante.

"I cannot guarantee that they were granted a merciful death."

"Hmm," Dante nodded, thoughtfully. So, in the list of potential problems to be dealt with: zealots in false devil triggers, not-zealots turned into unfortunate abominations, a tree which could be killed with a loud sneeze but only during a narrow and somewhat specific span of time, a ritual that could go really wrong the moment it died. Also... 

He dispatched another starved flour sack, kicked its blade aside.

Devils driven to madness by starvation and draining, and all the more dangerous and aggressive for it.

"Vergil, this is depressing," Dante said, at last.

"You say that," Vergil muttered, "and you don't even _like_ the place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil, softly, while Dante wilts in shame: I see... you, too, have sat sleepless and frightening nights at a bedside, albeit metaphorical,  
> Dante:  
> Vergil: which is why you have surely not been judging me all this time, like a judgey mcjudgepants,  
> Dante: i get it stop


	6. A theater for the Vicar

Fortuna Castle was as wide, echoey and unpleasant as Dante had expected it to be, and he hadn't even set foot inside it yet.

The area around it seemed pretty fully dead; the only sound was the howling wind, and a thick cloud cover turned the sunlight into a torpid soup. The ice-cap was permanent, Vergil had informed him, as they took elevators and stairs and bridges on their way to the peak; but from the way he snidely interrupted Dante's questions and gave non-answers, Dante guessed these paths were surveilled in some way, and chose to assume anything said within was an outright lie. 

So. The ice was probably another pseudo-gate.

The castle itself was silent as a tomb, and, despite being immaculately clean and cared for, still gave off an uncanny feeling of long-standing abandonment. Which was silly, considering it was currently popping with Order knights, patrolling slowly and in painfully soft steps. 

Some big hulking asshole was mincing steps around the guards, hissing hurried questions and pointing at things while scribbling furiously on some pad. Vergil's shoulders straightened and his chin rose as soon as he spotted the guy, and the reason became obvious as he was spotted in turn— the guy's entire face soured into a sneer, and when Vergil passed him by he fell into step immediately, teeth bared.

"Heresy!" The man hissed. "T-t-t-treason! To lead a stranger into the sacred halls during a rite of such magnit-t-tude—"

"Silence, _scum_ ," Vergil hissed back, and wow, were his hackles raised. " _You_ forced my hand. Nearly forty incursions since yesterday evening, from Brazier to Fuller, scarecrows and cainas running out of Mitis and down the slope of the mountain like ravening—"

"Are you implying your hand-picked men cannot handle a crisis," the man smirked, laying his smug on thick, "Oh Commander of the _Bianco Angelos_?"

"I am _stating outright_ ," Vergil gritted his teeth, "that the people of this land are a greater priority than your pride or mine. You lose sight of your duties, Chief Alchemist. Do not make me recite the Twelve Canticles."

The man half-sneered, half-cringed, and looked about to snap back when Dante resolved to nip the fight in the bud. 

"Seriously, dude, you fucked up," he mumbled to the man, who turned to him with a disbelieving gape. "Like, I don't always agree with Vergil, last time we met we almost killed each other, but I agree with him now and that's how you know you fucked up. You literally exist to keep demons from attacking people, if you _make_ demons attack people then what the hell are you even doing?"

The big dude turned to Vergil. "Who is this?" He hissed.

"My brother," Vergil answered, dryly.

The man squinted at Dante, looked him up and down like he was only just noticing that they were _maybe_ related.

"Hmph," he scoffed, and then stopped stumbling alongside them, turning to hiss at some other minion instead.

"Who the heck was that," Dante mumbled at Vergil, once they made it a fair distance from him.

"Agnus," Vergil hissed back, his face stormy. "The lowest of all the worms to ever rub their bellies upon filth."

"Wow, you'd think you don't get along," Dante said, raising his brows. "I could swear you were such friends."

Vergil failed to respond, possibly because they'd finally reached a huge, well-oiled double door into the manor itself. He led Dante past more guards, through tortuous outer halls and carpeted corridors, until they finally reached the upper story of some sort of big ballroom. 

The first thing Dante noticed was the gigantic painting of a kindly old man in priestly robes smiling down at the gallery. Whoever painted it was an unrivaled genius in his art; the frail, harmless figure in soft colors was imbued with an air of abstract menace and malice so intense it had to be purposeful, and yet not a single brush stroke jumped out as its source. It was simply, one could tell, a faithful depiction of the geezer standing under it, hands piously braced together, surrounded by other priests and guards. Affected gentleness, brushed thinly over a thick blend of demonic auras.

"The Vicar makes here his residence," Vergil whispered, and it figured— evil priest guy in a huge castle with only his massive portrait for company. How could anyone possibly suspect him of corruption or ill intentions? He was just your neighborhood grandpa living alone with his engorged ego, not compensating for anything. 

He tried to tell Vergil that mental zinger and was rudely shushed down. Stupid tree. 

Stupid ugly tree growing in the middle of the damn hall like a shriveled black hand. Stupid gross-ass fruit pulsing from the tip of a branch. 

Vergil made his soft-footed way to the evil old man while Dante followed slowly, studying the situation below. Priests prayed at the four corners of the room, most likely for display-only purposes. A massive circle complete with symbols had been carved into the marble flagstones and filled with blood, and items sat in bubbling basins, too stained now to be recognized, and possibly long drained. Snow drifted down from a hole on the ceiling, cut right above the tree.

The Jubokko itself grew onto the floor, rather than into it— its gnarled roots grown in clumps and over each other inside the containment seal, not unlike a very tangled pasta dish. From up close its hunger was unmistakable, and the fact that it slid him by was barely a comfort; a single step inside that circle, Dante surmised, would render the uniform pointless.

Which was probably why there was a very mundane-looking system of pulleys hooked around the one branch.

"Your holiness," Vergil murmured, laying a hand on his chest with a shallow bow, and man did he look sincere there for a scary moment. But the effect was spoiled when the grandpa glanced at Vergil, froze for half a second, tensed like he was shitting himself at the speed of light, smiled piously, spotted Dante, and went through the exact same motions. 

"Oh," Old Holiness said, softly, with commendable restraint. Dante half expected a sonic boom to reverberate from this guy's rear-end and kill the tree outright.

Vergil said nothing, showed nothing. No wonder the old man was voiding his figurative bowels— Dante, too, had pasted his neutral face on, and standing side by side in the same uniform the two had to look equally soulless. 

...Dante wished someone took a picture. For a pair of identical twins, they had never taken proper advantage of being nigh on indistinguishable since they learned to dress on their own.

"I wondered when you'd come," the old man said, his pious, humble smile at odds with the rich golden embroidery of his silky robes. "Follow me, children."

Children my ass, Dante thought as they followed the old guy into some side room. Its decorated walls and paintings had been hastily covered in insulation; it had a dining table and chairs, but some absolute moron had piled it full of paper instead of food. It even had an out-of-place fax machine disgorging more paper. 

A serious-looking man was grimly wading through the paper, pen in hand. His uniform was similar to Vergil's, and in fact he took one glance at Vergil, then at Dante, then back at Vergil, and nodded very slightly— but only once Old Holiness was distracted with his big display of sitting down heavily on one of the chairs. 

Dante fought back the urge to roll his eyes. Schemes, politics, what the hell, Vergil.

"Oh, Vergil," Old Holiness echoed his thoughts with a dramatic sigh, leaning on an elbow as if he were a frail old geezer not pumped full of devil powers. "Supreme Commander Tridentino has kept me apprised of the ongoing chaos. How regrettable..."

The paper guy glanced up again at Vergil, very serious, before turning back to his whatever job.

"You know my opinion on the matter," Vergil said. "Agnus' ritual—"

"—was a mistake," the old man said, slow and _very_ tired, lowering his head with great pathos. "Yours was so— beautifully put together, I suppose. Simple, _traditional_. It seemed almost too good to be true." He raised a dramatic hand. "Agnus' was complex and ambitious, but in the manner of organized chaos. My sole excuse is fallacious thinking— that Agnus' awareness of his work's potential weaknesses meant he was in control of them."

Vergil _did_ roll his eyes.

"Agnus has ever had a shaky grasp on the consequences of his own actions," he said, like the massive tower-raising hypocrite that he was. "This is perfectly in keeping with his usual pattern. The only surprise lies in the severity of this new crisis."

The old man laid his head in his hand, rubbed his eyes, pinched the wrinkly bridge of his nose, before finally resting his chin on his palm.

"Hindsight forces me to agree," he said, wheezily. "I understand that your swift action has ensured no lasting harm upon our people. We are ever in your debt, Son of Sparda."

Dante's perfectly neutral eyebrow twitched in surprise, hopefully before Old Man's attention turned to him.

"This is your brother, I presume?" he asked.

"Yes. Brother," Vergil turned to him, flicking a casual hand towards the old guy. "This is Sanctus. Sanctus," Vergil turned to the old man. "This is my younger twin brother, Dante, Son of Sparda, professional Devil Hunter."

Dante strove to look even more neutral than before. It was a bit hard, since Vergil had thrown such a classy shade on this Sanctus guy, and a big part of him wanted to whoop. But it was worth the effort, as Sanctus turned to Dante and once again looked ready to shit himself into the stratosphere for exactly one second.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Sanctus said, again putting on a big display of being old and tired. "Many criticized Vergil's insistence on your presence, but I cannot fault his judgment in these circumstances."

Huh. So they'd known all along that Vergil was calling him? This game was just getting stupider. What even was the goal again? Kill tree, kill fruit, make old guy look bad, make Vergil look less bad, maybe talk to his wife, figure out what the fuck was up with his son, and oh, make sure as many innocent people as possible were left alive at the end of the day— how was any of this even his reality? He was wearing _white_ for this shit job. He'd even parted his hair on one side.

Vergil wanted to look good for these guys? Dante decided to make him seem downright angelic in comparison, because he was a sweet little brother like that. 

"We need to talk," he told Sanctus, bluntly, in lieu of a greeting or a hand-shake or anything remotely personable. 

Vergil turned to him and raised his eyebrows.

"Alone," Dante clarified, looking very pointedly at Mr. Commander Paper and then back at Vergil.

Vergil stared at him and he stared back, plunging hard into the dumbest depths of basic apathy. Vergil retaliated by looking discreetly constipated. They held this silent contest for nearly thirty seconds, and hopefully looked like they were having some sort of intense telepathic twin conversation instead of simply playing spontaneous tiddlywinks.

Then Vergil nodded to Commander Paper and the two of them stepped outside. It wasn't like it was a real contest anyway, just Vergil wondering if he was about to fuck something up. And, really, if Vergil didn't want Dante to fuck things up, why call him?

He turned to Sanctus and waited until the door closed (softly) at his back before he let himself grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agnus, glaring at Dante and then Vergil in turn: My aut-t-t-istic face-blindness may be but a minor headcanon of the author's but she will be d-d-DAMNED if she does not put it to use at SOME POINT


	7. A theater for Dante

"So," he said, in his best cat-with-the-cream tone. "Vicar of Sparda, are you?"

He leaned on the table, channeling every mean governess to ever bully an innocent orphan on prime-time tv, and exactly as expected, Sanctus drew back, guarded, waiting.

"I have been awarded this honor, yes," the old man said, carefully. "To serve your father—"

"Why?" Dante asked, flippantly. "The old man is dead. It's only us now. Are you serving Vergil?"

"I—"

"Because back outside it looked like you were at _least_ pretending otherwise."

"Your brother—"

"Is a moron to even let you use him like this," Dante grinned, wider, harder, more dangerous, and didn't let it reach his eyes. It wasn't difficult; he wasn't feeling remotely amused. "But he was ever so sentimental, my sweet older brother. So very protective, so responsible. Mother's _perfect little boy._ And I was emphatically _not._ "

Sanctus didn't attempt to interject. He put on a very subtle pretense at dignified nervousness, let through some real fear. Good acting, better even than before.

"I don't care about such paltry, _human_ things as destabilizing a small country," Dante continued. Big grin. Dead eyes. Sanctus' saggy wrinkly throat quivered. "But one thing I care even less about is babysitting an entire island full of dumb lolling sheep who are too fucking scared of having a wrong thought to think about anything at all. I don't care about this land, and _Dad_ didn't either. He washed his hands of you and I am doing the same. But you, old man?"

He leaned down, lowered his head, until he was almost nose-to-nose with the very still Sanctus.

"I like my brother," he hissed. "And I don't like you. Give me one single reason, geezer. My trigger finger is _aching_ to blow your skull off."

Then he took one big, theatrical sniff, and shoved Ebony into the floppy skin under his chin.

"You stink of demon," he murmured, letting the grin go. Stay neutral, Dante thought. Let him look into your eyes and think you're soulless.

Sanctus finally twitched, and Dante immediately pressed Ivory against his forehead. He was now arched over the table without using his hands at all, and if Sanctus had an actual brain he would destabilize him with a single strike, but, much as Dante had predicted, he was too impressed by the lanky guy curved across a table with no leverage, like a dragon with guns akimbo, to put his brand new strength to use.

"Does Vergil know?" Dante murmured, for effect, as if Vergil hadn't been the one to tell him in the first place (as if either of them couldn't tell from a ballroom away). 

"No," Sanctus whispered. No denials. No stuttering. No hesitation. 

"Oh, you're going to break his little porcelain heart," Dante hissed, finally raising a knee onto the table and crawling closer, looming harder, forcing Sanctus to lean back further. "You sick little fuck. What's his plan?"

"I— plan?" Sanctus asked, stumbling on the sudden swerve.

"There is no way Vergil would humor some shitty snake like you," which was a fact, "unless you had something to offer he could not get anywhere else," which was also a fact. He pressed Ivory a little harder into his skull. "Is it the gate?"

"The—"

"Yamato can open it, right," Dante continued right over him. "Yamato can open a whole lot of things."

"He intends to fight Mundus," the geezer mumbled out, words tripping over themselves in his hurry to speak a complete sentence for once. Good, Dante finally had him where he wanted him. "To— to avenge your mother. To surpass your father. He will open the True Gate and step through when the time is right."

Good. Great, even. Time to ask the question Dante _really_ wanted to ask.

"Why not now?" Dante hissed. "Why is _this_ time not right?"

Sanctus swallowed thickly. "His son," he said, dramatically.

Dante lightened Ivory's pressure on his forehead, just a little, just for effect. "Son," he repeated. So the kid _was_ real, and Sanctus knew about him. 

Sanctus took the diminished poking for permission to nod, which he did very quickly. "A young boy he dotes upon," he whispered, as if bestowing upon Dante some super special secret. "He will broker no risk before the child reaches adulthood. He has— made it very clear."

"How surprisingly—" Dante dug deep into his well of assholery and channeled Vergil to the best of his ability— " _human_. Why the Jubokko?"

"There was concern," Sanctus swallowed, "for the... safety of this island, in his absence. That his son, even once grown, could be placed under too great a, a burden should he... fail to return—"

Dante raised his chin minimally. Geezer wanted an interruption _now_ , he wasn't going to get one. 

"Thus... it was decided that I— that I would make use of the fruit, and..." his mouth stretched in an awkward, overly sycophantic grin. "And... become the bastion of our world's defense in case the worst comes to happen." 

Well, something told Dante that a good part of that was bullshit, but okay. Didn't make it not the bullshit Vergil had fed Sanctus, even if it was bullshit they both were only pretending to swallow. 

God, this game was _dumb_.

"Why you and not me?" Dante asked, really for no reason other than to strengthen his brand-new persona as Vergil's whiny shitty brother or whatever. 

It would've been hilarious had this cult been unaware of his existence until this debacle, but something about the way this guy had frozen during their introduction told Dante that his reputation had preceded him for once. What was it again, that Vergil had told him about, lying deep inside the Order building? Some half-built Spardazord that required their blood to run?

Some Fucker had definitely done his homework, and was now cowering under his guns in an infuriatingly studied display of scared subservience.

"I..." he sniveled, eyes jumping to and fro like a cornered mouse, hands wringing in an obscene display of flaccid, spot-spattered wrinkles squeezing together. "I do not know, Son of Sparda. It was but your Brother's decision, along with maintaining my seat as the Order's figurehead. I merely... obey."

"Hmm," Dante conceded, holstering his guns. Surprise flicked through Sanctus' face for but a millisecond before his scared façade slammed back on, and Dante pretended not to notice it. 

Fucker really _had_ been counting on getting shot, just then. The show hadn't been about ingratiating himself to Dante, but outright pissing him off. 

Good thing Dante wasn't about to be manipulated by old men twice.

"Well, guess I'll have to ask Dearest Brother about it, then," Dante shrugged, casual as ever, and strolled to the door.

Paper guy was standing right past it, like a guard. Vergil was brooding further away, and, according to Dante's senses, had been there for the entire conversation. Even a devil's ears couldn't catch words through that soundproofing, at that distance. Coming from Vergil, this was a downright moving display of trust.

Vergil did immediately turn to look at the sound of the door opening, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow; Dante pursed his lips in lieu of a shrug. Shit be weird. He walked out and left the door open behind him. 

Sanctus followed him slowly, his hands tightly held together and lips moving in silent prayer. He looked oh-so-very cowed. So pathetic. So pitiful.

"How was your talk?" Vergil murmured, as he approached.

"Illuminating," Dante mumbled back, "Mundus, really?"

Vergil frowned, then raised an eyebrow, then glanced upwards, then back down.

"I'm surprised," he said. "Of all the skeins I spun in his view, that was hardly the one I expected him to latch onto."

They stepped away from each other, letting Sanctus' mumbly one-man-parade pass through them, and after closing ranks at his back, fell into lockstep in silent, spontaneous agreement. 

They hadn't walked in lockstep since they were Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee for Halloween, nearly two decades previous. Their costumes back then had been button shirts with short overalls, triangular hats sporting huge feathers, striped knee socks and booties, all in eye-searing combinations of orange and green. The two had practiced lines to speak in unison. The praise they'd received had been spectacular. Both parents had been insufferably proud. 

Their white-and-gold clad adult selves were generating almost as much sensation, from the reactions of assorted guards and priests and from the sight of Sanctus' gradually rising shoulders. How nostalgic.

Their efforts were rewarded when Sanctus hurried to his spot under his portrait with more speed than dignity, leaving the two behind by the railing.

"So you're not actually coming at Mundus, are you?" Dante mumbled.

"Please," Vergil mumbled back. "That would be reckless."

"And you're never reckless."

"Absolutely not."

"And it would be so reckless, to go without me."

"Unthinkably so."

"Glad we're on the same page."

And he was.

"So what's the holdup?" Dante asked, staring impassively at the tree. "When do I know when to start?"

"There'll be a lunar eclipse," hissed Vergil, equally as impassive. "It'll trigger the fruit's final push into maturation."

Dante glanced up towards the hole in the roof. The sky beyond was slate gray.

"The weather is immaterial," Verge continued. "As is the time of the day. The Earth will pass between Sun and Moon. Visibility doesn't matter."

Dante hummed softly in acknowledgment. "Still won't know when to start." 

"It'll be obvious," Vergil muttered. "Trust me. If the tree doesn't show it, these buffoons will." And then, "You'll have time. A strike at the very last moment will cause the greatest impression."

Yeah, right, the dumb plan. "Still think this is dumb."

"It's very, very dumb. Humor me," said Vergil.

"Hmm," said Dante, as noncommittally as physically possible.

A whole lot of nothing went on happening— except for a mounting tension amid the clergy, and the shooing out of all but a select few knights. Paper Knight had abandoned his fax machine at some point, taking position by Sanctus, and then the big asshole scientist who'd pissed Vergil off minced his way in, pen and papers in hand, pantomiming all sorts of incomprehensible nonsense. 

At one point, possibly because he, too, was growing increasingly more tense, Vergil told him some fun facts about the Jubokko— most of which amounted to it being total shit-tier. It was so looked down upon by Devil Lords that consuming it gave one the power of being considered a total joke; and since low-level demons didn't usually survive in its environs, it ended up more as a mid-tier demon's embarrassing little secret than anything. There used to be an entire forest of it around some devil's dumb hell fortress like a leafy moat, but then a different devil went and trampled through all of them just to show off. It was all fascinatingly boring.

Then a couple of floodlights blinked on and off, and the entire building went breathlessly still.

"Five minutes," Vergil murmured.

Oh god, five minutes still.

Dante looked at the weird pulsating fruit. It reminded him rather of the tumorous growth on the neck of that one homeless drunk who constantly fought himself in the alleyway behind the strip club. It also looked about as appetizing. Maybe all this pomp and circumstance was there to help psyche Sanctus into chowing the thing down? He remembered needing a dare and some cheering on the side before he could eat an ant-covered cookie, but comparing that cookie to this abomination was a literal crime.

The floodlights blinked twice.

"Three minutes," Vergil hissed.

Was it just him or was there a slight blush on the fruit? Like it was actually made of flesh and it had capillaries and the such. And, uh, the blush was intensifying. Was the pulsating literal. Did this fruit have a heartbeat. Those were questions Dante wished he did not have to consider. 

Ironically, it was looking less like a tumorous growth. Still worse than the ant-covered cookie, though.

The floodlights flashed thrice— and then all lamps were dimmed, electric or otherwise; from the corner of his eye, he saw Vergil mouth "one minute", his eyes glued to the tree, a smirk spreading on his lips. The open ceiling washed the entire place in a dull, depressing twilight gray, and Dante felt vaguely nostalgic for late afternoons in cloudy, muggy weather, during some blackout or other, too early to light candles but too dark already to really see indoors. Vergil and he would climb the couch and kneel on the cushions, chin and arms propped on the windowsill, boredly watching the colors drain off of their yard. That was when stuff like ant-covered cookie dares happened. 

This time, though, as the color drained from the walls and paintings and priestly robes, they concentrated on the Jubokko and its fruit. The tree was a true black against the diluted shadows, the fruit growing patches of bright, almost cheerful red, persimmon-like. It still pulsed, the ants to this cookie. 

Funny how this joint went to all that trouble, Dante thought, vaguely— even rigging a headlight countdown, when there wasn't a single clock in the room to double-check the time, huh. 

He shot at the swelling fruit.

Vergil shot out right along the bullet, his bared teeth flashing white in the gloom. Ebony's report reverberated on the walls like a bomb, a priest fell on his ass, the Jubokko thrashed like a surprised octopus; the sound of Vergil parrying his bullet rang in the air like a festive bell, and Dante jumped in his wake.

Vergil had redirected the bullet into the fruit's stem, and that was all he needed to confirm his own status as one more pawn in this scheme.

The sword that parried his strike was not Yamato, but the one with the trumpet attached. "Still playing games?" Dante called; the grin beyond his blade was a mirror to his own. The two pushed back simultaneously, but something made Rebellion stick, and Vergil twisted his sword—

Both blades went flying into the air, Rebellion embedded halfway into the chunky blade of the flame-spewing trumpet sword. Was that a rocket? On a blade? Dante landed on his feet and so did Vergil, across from him, grinning wildly, his now messy hair falling on his eyes...

The Jubokko fruit plopped on Vergil's extended palm, and the tree flailed, the floor shook, the restraining circle gave. Roots writhed and thrashed against walls and onto railings, dislodging priests as they pointed and shouted about the captain, the interloper, and Vergil was momentarily hidden from his sight; but a whirling branch slapped the tangled swords towards him, and with a flip for momentum and a firm flick of his blade he sent the broken rocket-sword flying off.

He took a ride on a flailing branch, spotted Vergil amid the roots. He seemed heedless of the whipping limbs around him, Yamato unsheathed, slicing a cross onto the air. A hole opened onto reality itself, like a surgical cut peeling the skin off of a churning void; then Vergil glanced up at him, smirked, and stepped into the dark mist.

Dante kicked off his branch towards Vergil's flapping coattails, and he'd been but halfway into the weird chilly portal when a thought occurred to him.

It wasn't even raining. Neither had broken a sweat. How was it that Vergil's hair came down? Even his own side-part was mostly—

...Vergil had just framed Dante, hadn't he. With nothing but his bangs and a pair of swords whirling in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante, to Sanctus: Now VERGIL was a GOOD BOY, and I was a SHITTY BOY, and I'm just gonna let you assume this state of affairs has not changed in the least
> 
> Meanwhile Vergil, staring solemnly into the distance: Can't wait to prank everyone with the ole twin switcharoo


	8. Nero

Dante rolled to a stop, Ebony and Ivory already in his hands, eyes taking in his new environment in a flash. 

Low ceiling. A living room, wide. Heavy wooden furnishing. Fringed rug, acanthus print. A boxy television. Vergil, crouched down like a wild animal, his back to Dante. A single wide eye gleaming over his shoulder, burning with pure madness. 

And then Vergil relaxed— actually relaxed, his entire demeanor changing, a rueful smile growing on his lips. He settled back on his heels, and Dante spotted part of the thing he had been crouched around. Hiding. Protecting.

He saw a pair of knee socks, fancy little indoor shoes. The top of a white fluffy head.

The sight hit him like a brick to the face, and he was holstering his guns before he even fully registered what he was looking at. 

"Vergil—" he called, his mind whirling and flailing like the Jubokko, heart thumping in his chest— he _knew_ there had been a kid involved, why— what— 

But Vergil calmly sheathed the Yamato and rose to his feet, lifting his son almost to the ceiling. "Nero!" he all but sang out, his voice filled with that same awed little happy undertone dad used to infuse their own names with... 

Dante stared at the smiling child, feeling like his skull was filling up with pop-rocks and fizzy drinks, his brain swimming. How, what, what!? This was— impossible? He didn't know why but he was suddenly absolutely sure that what he was looking at was incredible, a literal miracle, and it wasn't the sight of a kid looking happy to see Vergil. Whatever it was, it was making him too dizzy to so much as contemplate.

He was so stupefied, he almost missed Vergil's next words.

"I brought your uncle Dante!" He said, cheerfully. "Go say hi!"

And then the fucker tossed the impossible child at him, like a squealing, excited rocket.

"Buh— Bah—" Dante stuttered, his eyes locked on the incoming kid, hands already rising to receive him. Vergil was— running off? He threw the kid and ran off? Dante _wanted_ to be mad, but the boy was smiling, the ginger ale around his brain was intensifying, and he couldn't feel anything other than _kid kid kid_. 

The kid landed safely in his waiting hands and time seemed to jerk back into its normal flow. "Hi!" said the boy. "So you're Uncle Dante?"

" _Yes!_ " Dante squealed, completely out of his damn mind. Oh god, this kid was amazing. Holy shit. Holy _shit_. He looked just like a miniature adult, but cute!? Was that legal? And he was dressed so fancy!! In a button shirt and a perfectly tailored little vest and sturdy shorts and his knee socks and shoes, and they were brand new and fit him perfectly and he looked so good and also smelled so good—

"I'm Nero!" said the boy, immediately scattering what little sanity Dante had managed to scrounge. 

" _Nero!_ " Dante exclaimed, hearing in his own voice that same note that had been in Vergil's, in Dad's— 

_Demon bullshit_ , he heard in his head, amid the burbling of soda and the tickle of pop-rocks, and with supreme effort he snapped out of it enough to focus, to gather himself, to employ the power he had developed over many years of hiding and lying...

The power to compartmentalize.

"Oh my god, Nero!" He said, shuffling the boy into a proper hip-carry, while his brain did like mentos in coca-cola. "You're adorable! And so big! It's blowing my mind!!"

He made his legs start following Vergil, while his head burbled over the kid.

"I'm big?" Nero asked, looking so excited by the prospect, Dante's heart did a sick wheelie and then flopped out of its skateboard. 

"You are _so_ big," Dante confirmed, shakily, trying to sense Vergil in a forest of _kid kid kid oh my god_. He'd just met this brat and he loved him. This was so, so stupid, and he loved this kid he'd literally just met who wasn't even his, because of demon instincts or whatever, which made zero sense because demons were assholes, so what even the fuck, he was so happy and also kinda mad about it— "How old are you?"

"I'm five!" Nero showed him a small palm with five little perfect fingers, joints and all, creases and all, and a part of him (the demon part, he hoped) just went completely fucking nuts about it. _A perfect fucking hand!!_ The pop-rocks in his head hollered to the moon in a drunken chorus, and Dante tried to hate himself but couldn't. 

A different, very small part of him wondered why he'd been so certain the boy would be three. Three, a faded print, ill-fitting vest— 

"Say, little Big Five!" Dante asked, before his limited focus fell down that particular rabbit hole. "Where's your dad? Why did he run off?"

_Why did he show me an outdated picture of you?_

"Oh, he's probably with mom, the way he ran," Nero shrugged, casually. "Sometimes he finds a new medicine so he comes home all in a hurry to try it."

"A medicine!" Dante echoed, cheerfully, while the small voice of Actually Thinking on the back of his head went _wait wait wait_.

"Yeah!" Nero nodded, adorably and perfectly like an infant that had _masterfully_ put himself together (okay where had that thought come from). "He brings a bunch home and they're all _super_ nasty."

"Haha!" Dante dithered, trying to corral _some_ of his attention into checking his surroundings. He'd made it to a hallway. Bunch of doors. Nero existed in his arms, like a magical fairy that rendered all doors irrelevant.

Wait, hold that thought.

"So!" Dante said, feeling like a goddamn genius. "This is all very exciting but I still need to talk to your dad! Which door do I go to, can you tell me?"

"Sure!" Nero pointed to a door at one end. "That there—"

Dante moved that way.

"—is my room. I have a bed and a wardrobe—"

Dante turned on his heels, _almost_ frustrated.

"—and a big shelf full of Ninja Turtles. Do you like the Ninja Turtles?"

"Love 'em!" Dante sang, a weird little giggle escaping his mouth. "But where is your dad?" 

" _Yes!_ " Nero shouted to the ceiling, raising both beautiful little fists in a victory pose. "And you know they're _Teenage_ and _Mutant_ , right? Dad always says it wrong and it drives me _batty_. Anyway, he and mom sleep over there—"

He turned around on Dante's arm to point to the other end of the hall, but then Dante took a whiff off Nero's hair and his mind was forcibly astral-projected into fifteen different dimensions. 

"Fuck," he mumbled, trying to point his eyes in the same direction, when said door opened by itself. 

Presumably, the weird bulky crow of a human stepping out of the room was _not_ , in fact, Vergil's mystery wife.

"Oh," said the bulky crow, with a decidedly manly voice. He was tall and skinny and wore a black coat about the size of a parachute.

"Hi! This is Uncle Dante," said Nero, waving to the newcomer, and turning to Dante. "That is my Uncle Vitto who takes care of mom."

"Incredible," murmured Uncle Vitto, eyes going from Nero to Dante.

" _I know, right?_ " Dante blurted out, overwhelmed with unexplainable and completely unwarranted pride, and held the kid out by the armpits to show him off. "Look at him!"

"Yes, yes," Uncle Vitto nodded, but he was looking intently at Dante instead of Nero.

Dante wiggled Nero a bit to get the guy's attention. "No, _him!_ " He insisted.

Nero giggled; the pop-rocks in Dante's head told him to wiggle again, and he was helpless to disobey, swinging Nero from side to side, watching his legs sway like two precious little pendulums with knee socks.

"Look," Dante stared at the magical dangling legs, the adorable little shoes. "He's like— like a miniature person!! A _full people!_ Like _ready-made!_ Look at his legs!" 

Vitto watched him pityingly.

" _Exactly!!_ " Dante insisted. "This kid is blasting my brain like a bong hit!! What the _shit_ is going on!?"

Vitto actually seemed to consider his question. "I believe it's a function of—"

"No, forget that!" Dante shouted, bringing the kid back to his hip and stepping around Vitto. "It's demon shit, and Verge is fucking _something_ up and I need to—"

He pushed the door behind Vitto open and stepped into a strange, ghostly princess demesne.

### 

It was bright white and pale wood, washed in the pinks and golds of the glorious sunset outside. The windows were open to a view of the sea, only slightly hampered by the occasional rooftop, and the sills were covered in flowering pots.

A massive poster bed dominated the room, its white gauzy curtains fluttering in the breeze. The nearest side-table was wide and crammed full of bottles and pills and little instruments, and a rack stood against the wall, a blood-bag hanging from it. The linens were white, the covers were satiny pearl with lavender flowers, and Vergil leaned over the bed, obscuring its occupant and the assorted plushies that made them company.

"Dante," he said— no, _pleaded_ , eyes boring into his, even as the rest of him hid and pushed down at... 

The bed started to shake, glyphs glowing on its pillars, on the floor under the parquet; Dante finally noticed a hand over the covers, stick-thin and bony and shrunken, thrashing and clutching at the fabric where it had laid limp, near transparent nails growing thick and opaque and _long_ — 

"Haha!" Dante giggled, awkwardly, stepping back and closing the door on the scene. "Well, kiddo," he turned to Nero, the fizzy drink and pop-rocks in his head turning into churning waters and jagged ice, into a pure and absolute focus. "Guess your dad is busy. Wanna show me your ninja turtles?"

Nero bounced in his arms in response, and hopefully assumed that Dante crossed entire hallways in a leap at the prospect of action figures. Vitto wheezed at their back, as Dante almost ripped the door out of its hinges and slammed it shut as soon as the three of them were in. 

A picture fell off the wall.

Nero hopped off Dante's arm directly onto his own sizable bed— in a very nicely controlled bound, the last pop-rock in Dante's brain noted with great satisfaction and approval— and then bounced his way to a shelf above the headboard. Another picture dropped, and some of the figurines fell over; the building itself was shivering. Dante picked the kid, swept all the toys off the shelf, laid the lot onto the bed, and knelt over them, bright smile pasted onto his face. 

"Oh shit, dude!" He said, riffing through the figurines, feeling rumbling noises and demon auras rise both in and out of the building. "You have like _three_ Michelangelos! He's the coolest!"

"Yeah!" Nero agreed, then fished a much-loved Leonardo from the pile. "But Leonardo is my favorite. He uses katanas, just like dad, even though dad only uses one katana. But dad is cool, too, I guess."

Dante nodded solemnly, watching as a cascade of glyphs lit up all over the walls, as glowing threads crisscrossed the open window in a demon-repelling net. 

It was his first time seeing one from the reverse side. 

Protective circles blazed to life around the room, on and around and overlapping each other, floor to ceiling, like an artistic tribute to absolute pants-on-head parental paranoia. Nero glanced at it for less than an unimpressed second before going back to riffing around his stash.

"So when I opened this Donatello his arm was actually broken and I was very sad," Nero explained, raising an obviously glued together specimen. It was limned in the multicolored glow of crazy shining around them. "So when dad went to the mainland he brought me this one, and it's _So! Good!_ " He raised a different one, huge, beautifully sculpted, fully articulated with its own stand, likely a deluxe edition. "Can you believe this! And it was even the right turtle! Dad can't even say his name right, he always calls him 'Dona Taylor' instead like Donatello's an old lady or something, and I keep trying to teach him to say it right but he doesn't get it—"

Vitto was leaning by the window, glancing outside through the translucent threads. Dante tried to ask a silent question with his tensed eyebrows, and Vitto pursed his lips in response. Communication was not accomplished. Dante hoped the grim look on the guy's face meant the weather was turning, but the jagged ice of his sharpened senses screamed the presence of demons, simultaneously too close and not close enough to safely attack ( _to leave Kid Kid Kid unguarded_ ), their auras like beacons on a map in his Nero-wired brain—

A gut-shriveling and _definitely_ demonic shriek echoed from entirely too close for Dante's peace of mind, and the sound of collapsing rubble reverberated through the walls, coming from within the building; dust puffed in from under the door, like a little cough, and that was all the threat they got from the chaos outside.

Nero sat back, eyes narrowing, glaring into the distance.

"Hey, look!" Dante said with desperate cheer, digging into the toy pile. "It's a tiny pizza slice! I love pizza, do you like pizza?"

"Dad's messing _something_ up," Nero said, solemnly, before crawling to the edge of the bed with the look of a man on a mission; Dante sat gaping as he did so, the unhelpful demon uncle in his head simultaneously happy for and terrified by this sudden turn of events.

 _Baby not ready_ , the pop rocks mumbled in his head, drowning in the churning currents and knocked by jagged ice. _Help. Burble._

Vitto came to the rescue like a gloomy hero. "I'm scared," he said, solemnly, kneeling by the bed before Nero climbed down. "Please don't leave me alone, Nero... I can't fight."

Nero looked up into Vitto's sunken eyes, studied his hollow cheekbones, and then shot a gauging glance at Dante. 

Dante couldn't fathom what his own face was looking like. He'd just had a terrible epiphany, and no presence of mind left to disguise it.

But Nero just blew his cheeks out like a frustrated adult. " _Fine_ ," he said emphatically, sighing deep in annoyance, crawling back to his toys as if returning to a chore. A battle raged on outside; Dante could swear he saw some guy in medieval armor fly by in a jet-pack. From this room, this angle, this height, he had no way of knowing what was going on, not without abandoning this child, not without calling his attention to the chaos. 

Five years. Five years since they last met, and his brother had summoned him to play babysitter while he jeopardized an entire island to feed his bedridden wife a devil fruit. And this child— Vergil had to have known Dante would make the connection immediately. 

The outdated photo had been such a clever misdirection, in the end.

This kid was as old as their battle at the Temen Ni Gru.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! We made it to the end of the *checks notes* ......prologue. Whoops?
> 
> Anyway, to my dear readers, regarding the future of this fic: I hope you like Vergil. I hope you like _lots_ and _lots_ and _LOTS_ of Vergil. 'Cause shit's about to get _motivating_.


	9. The turn in Vergil's fortunes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Record-scratching sound.
> 
> Frame-freeze on Vergil, holding his seizing wife steady onto their bed.
> 
> "You are probably wondering how I got myself into this... _situation—_ "

For a blessing, the Order's uniform conferred both respectability and anonymity. 

The residents of Fortuna saw his predatory stride and gave him a wide berth, and the emblazoned white coat with its hood pulled low forestalled any complaints or questions from the inattentive few he pushed aside. Rudeness was but one minor sin among the many permitted to a Knight.

In most circumstances, such boorishness would be beneath him. This entire charade would be quite beneath him, as a matter of fact. But he permitted himself this indulgence, in the circumstances. This one, to fortify himself against the allure of that which he must _not_ — 

It was— he was— 

He stopped, took a deep breath, laid a steadying hand upon Yamato's hilt. Clenched it until her braiding imprinted its texture upon his Order-issued gloves.

Forcibly centered his straying thoughts. His constantly scattering, fraying thoughts. Listing helplessly towards the ever-present, sanity-consuming pull of h _hhh_ — 

( _Do not think in possessives. Do not think— or else—_ )

...he expelled a shaky breath.

Somewhere upon the island there dwelt an inescapable truth, and yet this fool remained within its reach, fighting a hopeless battle against its thrall. He took stock of his location, and, with a lurch of dismay (and treacherous _hope_ ), found that his feet had once more carried him in the direction of— 

But it was fine. It was— still half a city away. His everything rebelled, from his sense of honor to his most obscure, absurd instinct, human and demonic both; but with a deep bracing sigh he reoriented himself, turned his back on what he knew, from his deep study of a city map, was an orphanage.

( _But what if it's not, asked the aching clawing madness inside him, do you not hear the call? What if it is hungry it is thirsty it is hurting it is LONELY—_ )

It _was_ an orphanage, and he gritted his teeth against the marrow-deep anxiety insisting otherwise. He couldn't go. He couldn't give himself away. 

With heavy steps he began to stretch the taut connection that lay between them. He was sure to pay for this slack he'd inadvertently given; the noose was already tightening around his lungs, the leash around his spine, tied to the weight of an island. He tugged in vain. It would be too much to hope that it would snap before he did. 

( _He'd tried to snap it, once. Or rather, he'd tried to conceive of a way that it might be gently, very gently loosened, only enough to give him— but his body had seized, physically, upon his bed in his small rented room, and he'd been visited by a hollow despair so visceral and inexorable, it convinced him that to imagine it was to risk it. And thus he became unable to turn his thoughts to the matter, on threat of— he did not know, for he could no longer bear to contemplate it._

 _The Dark Slayer laid low, not by a powerless body but a powerless mind—_ )

"Excuse me— wait!"

The words passed him right by, much as he'd passed by their speaker, concentrated as he was in his fight against this deep— ( _foolish, foolish thoughts, no—_ )

"Wait!"

He considered, and immediately dismissed, the possibility that he was being spoken to.

"Wait— please—"

He reconsidered, focusing on the present with some difficulty. The voice was close behind him, and he could tell he was being followed through the market throng, even with his much dulled senses. Still, he did not stop; he had no wish to talk. He _would_ indulge in his rudeness, or else he might indulge in wholesale slaughter of this entire land.

His pursuer did at least give him something to set his mind upon that wasn't his... travail. They were no longer calling; instead, a strange, wheezing breath dogged his steps, along with the stumbling and shuffling of one who was unpracticed in any form of stealth. He entertained the thought of slowing down, giving himself an excuse to unsheathe Yamato in a great bloody arc and claim surprise... but no, it was ridiculous, and unseemly, and beneath him, even as low as he had been laid, even on his last rope.

He did slow his stride, this time in defiance of his grim, base urges. He would be curt but no more than strictly necessary, and he would maintain a steady temper and not call undue attention to himself. Nothing on this island posed a threat to anything but his sanity, and it would not be undone by some clumsy human who apparently could not run.

"Please—" wheezed his pursuer again, weakly, as he came to a stop, their footsteps syncopated, their breath near to whistling— "Did you know _Isobella_?"

Vergil's innards froze, and he turned in full to face this pursuer. 

Black hair, green eyes. A haggard young man in a dark, oversized coat, grasping at his chest, struggling to inhale.

"I am— I am her brother—" the man gasped— and Vergil took his arm without thinking, dragged him away to the closest place his addled mind deemed _safe_.

It was a rooftop, but Knights of the Order were allowed to be acrobatic in public.

Speak, he meant to say. Give me proof, he meant to say. Instead, he threw his hood back, his sweaty hair plastered to his skull, the black bandanna he'd been wearing discarded in the sweltering heat.

" _Where is she?_ " asked his treacherous mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil, wild-eyed and swaying: WHERE IS MY EX. DO NOT LIE TO ME, I AM FATHERLY AND _DANGEROUS_


	10. Vittorino, part 1

It took the man a long minute to be composed enough to talk. He coughed, his breath rattling in his lungs, and in hindsight it had been unwise to yank him around by a single limb; eventually, though, the man swayed to his feet, and stopped massaging his arm.

"She's at the Chantry," the man gasped, with a last cough and a wince. "More than that, I do not know for sure, but—"

"Did I break it?" 

"Huh?" The man blinked at Vergil, who waved awkwardly at the limb in question.

"Your arm," Vergil qualified, feeling both guilty and a little silly. He'd had the arm in his hand, he'd have felt it if it had so much as cracked. What a pointless question.

"Oh!" The man glanced at his own arm, stiff at his side. "...not really. It's sure to bruise, though," his voice dropped into a mutter, "and won't that be a lovely conversation with Mother—"

That resentful tone was certainly familiar, if in a different timbre. Feeling more sure-footed, he ventured into actually asking a question that mattered.

"Who are you?"

"Ah, yes," the man nodded awkwardly, dusted his coat pointlessly before offering a hand. "I'm Vittorino Martinelli. Isobella's younger brother. And you are... Vergil, correct?"

Vergil nodded, shook the proffered hand with unease. He was rarely called upon to engage in human social rituals, even after having employed himself in Fortuna. There was no magic involved, no menace, nothing but a warm palm and bony fingers, and yet it felt like the signing of a vague and ominous contract.

Vittorino pulled his hand back, looked around himself awkwardly. "This may— not be the best place for this conversation," he said softly. 

Vergil studied his surroundings. Rooftops were usually good for privacy, but he did spot a problem; a half-open door on a ceiling exit, to which Vittorino was already moving. Such was his luck— most buildings in Fortuna didn't bother with more than a trapdoor, so of course he would climb the one who did. 

"Do you know the area? Can you lead us to privacy?" He asked, in low tones, as the two crossed the inconvenient door. 

"I can do better," Vittorino smirked. "I live nearby."

Vittorino lived in a squatty apartment building at Fortuna's main avenue— the Blade (of Sparda, of course), a few minutes' walk away from the markets. The place did not seem to offer much privacy, with the din of people and the rumble of cars coming in clear through the walls of the residential stairs, but Vittorino's floor was near devoid of life.

"I have one neighbor," Vittorino said with a smirk, jangling a crowded keyring. He pointed to the end of the corridor, where light streamed in from a distant balcony, beyond several yards of dark hallway and closed doors. "She's seventy-six and very deaf."

The apartment was small. There was some attempt at glamour: the walls were papered with arabesques in burgundy and amber, the lampshades were stylized as lilies with brass stems, the floor was wooden parquet with at least one rug, the furniture was solid wood. It was all clearly wasted on its occupant.

Vittorino dodged several book piles and stacks on his way to one of the book-covered sofas, picked up about a third of the first stack within his reach, relocated it to one of the floor piles.

"Sorry about the mess," he said, as he worked on the second third of the first stack. "Medical school, you know how it is. Let me clear up a seat and then grab a drink."

He was still favoring his arm, and hadn't even taken off his coat. Vergil deftly stepped up to the couch opposite, raised all four book stacks upon it in both hands and forearms, and with a careful heave he tossed them onto a narrow clear space on the floor. They landed safely in their piles with but a bang and some flapping. 

Vergil slapped dust off his gloves, then hesitated.

"They can hear that downstairs, can't they," he asked, glancing carefully at Vittorino.

Vittorino had the last of his stack in hands, and stared at the relocated books with fascination.

"Hmm," he said, and then, "oh, don't worry— my books are always falling, they should be used to it by now."

Having cleared the one pile, Vittorino finally removed his coat— which had vastly bulked up his gaunt frame— and stepped gingerly up to a cabinet. 

Vergil sat on his cleared seat, glanced around himself. The books were certainly medical— anatomy, chemistry, biology, pharmacy. A surprising amount was imported, their glossy modern covers a marked contrast to the traditional leather binding of local printers. 

There were also no shelves to be seen, which answered some questions and raised others. But— not questions that mattered.

Vittorino returned, slotted himself neatly in the space liberated by the one book tower, and set a pair of glasses and a bottle on the pile of hardcovers between them— with coasters, Vergil noted.

"Well," Vittorino said, filling Vergil's glass and then his own, "back to business."

Vergil nodded, raised his glass. It smelled like tea. It was, in fact, tea. Presumably, the books concealed a fridge somewhere in the room.

"Did you know, when you left—"

Vergil slammed the glass down, sloshed tea on a foil-printed inorganic chemistry tome. "No," he strangled out. 

Despite himself he buried his head in his hands, feeling as though his mind was being bombarded, pried open by the sudden reminder. Without his noticing, he'd been granted a short reprieve; with but a question it had all crashed back with a vengeance.

Isobella, he told himself sternly. We're focusing on Isobella right now. With a deep breath and a tightening of his eyelids, he lowered his hands, straightened his back.

"I... was not aware," he amended, as calmly as he could, "of a pregnancy."

Vittorino studied him carefully over the rim of his glass. One might even be forgiven for assuming he sipped on something alcoholic, such was the uncalculating bohemie of his pose; in that sense, he truly was Isobella's brother. 

"...I suppose you are aware now," Vittorino said, with a note of sympathy, and Vergil almost laughed.

" _Very_ ," he said. It was all he was aware of, at times. Asleep or awake, the awareness drowned him.

"Will you be claiming him?" Vittorino asked.

The question was a predictable one, and Vergil was, thankfully, braced for it. The impulse surged within him, half-magical-half-physical, his human and demon blood not at odds but feeding each other— the same frenzied feedback loop that he relied upon in battle, now working to erode his will; he leaned on Yamato, braced on her hilt, and somehow maintained his composure.

So deceitfully straightforward, was the verb _to claim_. 

"...eventually," he said, his voice only slightly unsteady.

He'd meant to say 'not yet', to pledge nothing as long as the battlefield remained uncertain; but that would necessitate uttering a denial. Semantics or not, his tongue rebelled. His own body tensed in revulsion. He could deny himself, but not— not— 

It washed through him like a wave, up to his fingertips, and he lowered his forehead to Yamato, clung to it as he rode it out. Warm, trance-like. A suspended moment of soft and uncomplicated _joy_ , of comfort. He yearned to give in and be carried in its wake. He rooted himself instead.

And it pulled back from him with claws and hooks, clinging in confusion, leaving behind a new layer of anxiety like ever-building silt. 

( _Because the child was HIS and he needed but stretch his proverbial hand and CLAIM WHAT WAS HIS and his double set of stupid instincts wouldn't wrap around the concept of BIDING HIS TIME_ —)

He took a deep breath and raised his head and knew he looked as wretched as he felt.

"I..." he marshaled his all into the most pathetic excuse for an explanation, "am n-not ready."

It felt like nails into his tongue. It would never again feel like anything but nails into his tongue. The prospect held an absurd appeal, his due punishment for his entirely abstract crime.

His existence was a joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vitto: this roof no good  
> Vergil: aw it really ain’t  
> Vergil: (thinking) big hole in opsec  
> Vitto: (thinking) no chairs


	11. Vittorino, part 2

"You don't look well," said the man whose lungs rattled at every breath, to really hammer his new reality home. 

"I'm not," Vergil conceded, able to state that one simple truth at least. Then he raised a hand, stopping Vittorino before he rose to his feet. "It doesn't matter. My health and safety are not in question. You mentioned a chantry." 

Vittorino nodded uncertainly, settling back down. "The Chantry of the Candelary," he said. "It's traditional, for... wayward daughters. If you spot a Sister out on errands, it'll never be one of _them_. They're cut off from the world."

He sipped his drink, his eyes taking on that same hollowness Isobella would sometimes stray into. It matched him better than it did her. 

"I tried to send messages. I approached one of the Sisters directly, to convey my promise that I would keep— interceding. With Mother and Father." His eyes darkened. "She told me to sit and wait, and left for ten minutes. I kept count. And then she kindly brought back a message from my sister," his voice became prim and airy. " _I am thankful but undeserving of your efforts. For I have squandered my maidenhood, and the Savior—_ "

Vergil surprised himself with his own burst of laughter. His entire ribcage shook from the force of it; he put a hand to his forehead, dizzy, and found himself sliding back on the couch, half over the armrest. Across from him, Vittorino chuckled with equal disbelief. He couldn't tell whether his own overwrought laughter was hysteria or if there was actual humor to be found, but... it was certainly hilarious and disgusting in equal measure.

Isobella, _squandering_ her maidenhood. Isobella, who thought of squandering as a life not lived like she was dying. Isobella, who'd stood amid a gaggle of rampant scarecrows, smiling dreamily, because he was, apparently, "hot". 

"Yes," Vittorino said, as their mirth subsided. "I can only assume she received no messages of mine, before or after."

"And your parents?" Vergil asked, but the resentful grimace in Vittorino's face was too familiar to spell good news. 

"I expected nothing from Mother, and she did not disappoint. She always did love Isobella best as a source of woe. But Father..."

It was Vittorino's turn to cover his eyes with a hand, looking tired and even more sickly. He took a deep, bracing breath.

"So," Vittorino started, eyes distant, "Bella didn't actually _tell_ anyone about her pregnancy—"

Vergil tensed, half-expecting to be overcome again, but Vittorino gave him little time; his words poured, and their mournful, tired tone seemed to— confuse the impending fit, to dampen the unwarranted euphoria.

"She must have been almost five months along when Mother took notice," Vittorino continued, unaware that Vergil was focused less on his words than on the inside of his own head. "It was right before a fancy ball, and Mother was warbling about Bella's figure and her dress when the penny dropped. The very heavens could have crashed upon the island," he chuckled bitterly, "and it wouldn't have been a greater tragedy. But Father set her straight at once— remember the ball, look sharp, forget about it till we're back. He was always the practical one, and Mother always deferred to him. But... he also gave her free rein in return. He never interfered with Mother's games, and he continued not interfering so long as they were private. And by the Savior— she was monstrous."

Vergil hadn't been paying attention, at first. But— Isobella had hated her mother, that had been very clear in their short acquaintance. She had never bothered to justify her feelings, though. Her contextless grousing and sharp mutters had painted less the figure of a cold matriarch than that of a cheap theater witch, to be laughed out of a child's classroom. Vergil had shrugged it off as human pettiness, their pointless conflicts, one more weakness to be wary of in his blood, and paid it no heed in their dalliances.

She'd never called her own mother _monstrous_.

"She plied Bella with abortifacients," Vittorino spoke, a strike cutting mercilessly into Vergil's core. "And when they didn't work she moved onto mixing medicines at random, hoping only to make her sick enough to miscarry. Some of these—" he slapped at the cover of a leather tome, flipping it open— "are from that time. Me and Guillermo— our older brother— we had to take turns hiding safe food and sneaking it to her, and if Mother cooked something for Bella, I had to pretend to want to taste it. We were afraid for her _life_. One time I caught her tampering with Bella's plate on the way to her room, and— did I mention she was confined to her room?" Vittorino asked, a humorless smirk in his lips. "But Mother knew I'd pick at the food before she left the kitchen, so in her concern and piety she refrained from sprinkling it with actual, _literal_ rat poison before I did. She just pocketed the vial instead, to administer it in the corridor. I only followed because—" he sighed, heavy, thick, "I'd overheard so many of Mother's horrid guilt-tripping diatribes, I thought my presence might..."

Vittorino sighed, stood up, stepped over books on his way back to the cabinet, and did not seem to take any notice of Vergil's own stricken expression. The words spilled out of him like he'd been holding them back for a long time.

"I swore to take it up with the Order itself. How many sons in the whole damn _world_ feel a need to flip a plate of food out of his mother's hand?" He pulled out a different bottle from the cabinet, and it most definitely did not contain tea. "And finally Father saw fit to intercede again, by telling Mother to pretend _she_ was pregnant. A bit of flattery—" he topped his tea with the drink, "—of implying she still looked young enough to be fertile, and Mother was overjoyed by the prospect. He always made it look so easy."

He sipped his spiked drink, glaring into nothing, before weaving his way back to his seat. He raised the bottle wordlessly; Vergil shook his head. The concept of drinking seemed absurd, at the moment.

"It's... not that strange, you know," Vittorino muttered, slowly, as he set the new bottle down on his improvised table. "I mean, it's strange out there, I suppose, where a single mother is still a person— I just did a year of college in the mainland," he clarified. "But... sometimes, here, a maiden of good breeding may fall sick, or go on an extended visit to relatives, or take up a short-term sabbatical in a cloister, just for a few months. And then their mother, or a suitable close relative, may be seen wearing dresses of more forgiving waist, or being a little picky with their food. Then suddenly that maiden gains a very unexpected sibling, or cousin, and there is much joy and congratulation for the new and definitely married mother, and maybe the maiden is worth a lesser marriage now, but plausible deniability has been maintained. And," he sipped his drink again, "we all know that's what _really_ matters."

Vergil's throat constricted. He could guess at the next chapter in this sordid tale, all too easily. The child was a Sparda— and the thought did not addle him for once, the context too visceral to be overridden.

"He wasn't plausible," he murmured, watching Vittorino sip whiskey-topped tea. 

Vittorino shook his head, grimly.

"We're aristocracy, minor as we are," he said, setting his glass down. "But the baby was translucent. It's not a complexion we get in this island; even Mother's carefully maintained pallor could not match it. So Father would not have him— to claim the baby was Mother's would have been tantamount to claiming himself a cuckold."

"What?" Vergil slipped, the sheer absurdity of those words snapping him out of his malaise.

"Only a foreigner could beget a child like yours," he explained, heedless of the way Vergil's heart leapt at the— admission— _possessive_ — but Vergil wasn't even distracted by the spike of euphoria. 

"Yes, but, poultry?" Vergil stammered, head swimming from the unexpected endorphin injection.

"Poultry?" Vittorino asked, equally confused, before his brows raised. "Oh! No— I mean like, cheated on...?" 

"But— it's the wife's choice to be unfaithful!" Vergil insisted, despite himself. "How does that reflect upon _him_?"

He wasn't sure whether he was genuinely bewildered, or whether the accursed instinctual daze afflicting him was addling his understanding, but he was suddenly stuck on that one point, and also distressed by being stuck.

"Uhh," Vittorino grimaced awkwardly, like Vergil was a child asking about reproduction. "The thing is... if your woman seeks another man... then that means you are not a good enough lover...?"

"Then it's my own damn fault?" Vergil said, now feeling even more justified in his confusion. "Yes, I understand this is about maintaining your mother's reputation as an honorable wife, but even then, why not simply accept responsibility? Sometimes— the wife might not have been unfaithful, just... defenseless."

Vergil's voice weakened, as his mind caught up with his suggestion and its... implications. But Vittorino remained calm, and even regarded Vergil with a small smile.

"The way Bella spoke of you," he said, surprising Vergil, "I expected— I don't know what I expected, actually. You seemed made-up, cobbled together from an entire compendium of fairy tales. She called you sweet, she described a terrifying mercenary, and you are actually a gentleman. I'm relieved!" He laughed awkwardly. "You are completely right that Father should have taken responsibility. But this wasn't about Mother's reputation so much as about his virility. _His_ reputation, as a _man_."

Vergil recoiled in revulsion.

"A _man_ ," he sneered through gritted teeth, "as if—"

He bit his tongue. This was still Vittorino's father he was insulting. 

Vittorino threw back nearly half his glass in response. "As if he were any such thing? I know. Preposterous," he said, hoarsely, slapping his glass down and missing his coaster. His lungs were making that concerning wheezing sound again. "That day, I knew my Father for a coward. He had Clara expose the baby at the dead of night— Clara is our maid, and a better mother than Mother, and older to _boot_ — and Bella, of course, was sent to the cloister before she was even done bleeding..." His voice grew tighter. "Then Mother took the opportunity to pretend the shock caused _her_ to miscarry _her fictitious baby_ —"

He was overtaken by a coughing fit. Vergil sympathized; if he'd found himself uttering such words, he would choke as well.

And Isobella... Isobella made a little more sense now. When home is a nest of vipers and you are powerless to change your lot, why turn and run from demons, when you could stay and enjoy the spectacle of an exotic foreigner killing them? 

She always did regard the notion of self-preservation as a waste of time.

"It's been over two years," Vittorino spoke, his voice gravelly, his chest rattling, one hand on his sternum as the other reached for his glass. "And Father has not yet forgiven her for this _potential_ slight against his manhood. He already spoke of her as if she were dead, almost as soon as she was taken. But," he took a bracing gulp of his drink, coughed a small last cough, "Clara came through for us, at least. She set your son down at the orphanage steps, and wrapped him in a distinctive scarf— black silk, that Mother favored for funerals. It gave her a cough, but she kept watch until he was found. They named him Nero, for the black scarf, and he's fine and healthy."

"Nero," Vergil repeated, carefully. It was... a name. A word. Sounds. It tasted like nothing, awoke nothing, tugged at nothing.

Finally, he could think of— _Nero_ — without losing his damn mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vitto: You up to date on patriarchal bullshit  
> Vergil: Not really  
> Vitto: Ever heard of Münchhausen by proxy  
> Vergil: Na  
> Vitto: Hoo boy, strap in. This gonna be a wild and nauseating fuckin ride


	12. Vittorino, part 3

"He is... well, then," Vergil asked, tamping down firmly on the anxious flutter in his chest.

"Yes," Vittorino said, with a fond little chuckle. It sounded like sandpaper in his throat. "I keep tabs when I can. Guillermo did, as well, when I was abroad." His face darkened. "Before he misplaced his spine."

He finished his glass, poured himself more whiskey, and then some tea as an afterthought. 

"But yes," he continued. "Little Nero is a sweet boy, very smart, very energetic. A little too smart and energetic for prospective foster parents, though. A family kept him for a time, then sent him back." He sipped his hellish little mix as if it were fine wine. "Said he was _too much_. As if they'd do the same if their own blood child turned out to be _too much_."

For the first time in perhaps a decade, Vergil felt divided along the lines of his heritage. Part of him crowed in satisfaction, that a _pretender_ had tried to claim— claim Nero, _no possessives_ — and was duly rejected; part of him recalled a stream of adults taking in a bedraggled child, their intentions ranging from honorable to foul, only to fall prey to his inevitable pursuers. 

That part won, in the end. His blood ran cold, in distant, half-remembered despair.

"How is he—" he asked, before he could think twice about it.

"Coping? About as well as a kid who's learned rejection," Vittorino answered, heavily. "I'm just glad I— made him no promises. Guillermo had sworn, when Nero was born," he took another sip, "that he'd take in the child once he was wed and established in his new home. Then it was amended to after begetting his own child. Then, to once Nero was more grown. Now he's mumbling uncertainly about the breakables in his house. And I..." he looked around himself, despondently. "I still live out of Mother's pocket. She rents this place, she controls my allowance. Anything I need must be begged of her. And she wants so, so badly for me to go back to being her precious invalid baby..."

Vergil glanced at the nearest wall. "I wondered," he muttered, "why you had no shelves."

"A waste of money, when I'm coming back home _eventually_ anyway," Vittorino said, bitterly. "So I wage this stupid passive-aggressive war, losing ground every time Mother comes in to close the windows and dust every surface and spray insecticide and then pretend she gives one _whit_ about my asthma— but by god will I fight it until I manage to invite one of her charity buddies for _tea_."

He downed his entire drink in one gulp and smacked it down— on its coaster, this time.

"Well," he said, roughly. "I gave my excuses, poor as they are. What are yours?"

"Pardon?" Vergil turned back in surprise, from his scrutiny of the wallpaper's now rather alarming texture.

"What is holding you back?" The man asked, mercilessly, his gauntness and slouch suddenly imbuing him with Isobella's own disquieting unpredictability. "You are here, and your son is there, and you have a paying job. What is keeping you?"

"I—" Vergil stammered, taken off-guard, those yearning claws repeating _what is KEEPING you_ , and— "I can't," he said, lamely.

"Why not? Money? Space?" Vittorino insisted, and he couldn't understand, couldn't begin to imagine— 

"I can't _handle_ it!" Vergil snapped, louder than he meant to— 

—and it was back, a rising flood, a crashing wave, overwhelming, warm, enticing, a _thrall_ , confusing his senses, eroding his logic, and he had but to say it, to _think_ it, to accept what every fiber of his being knew to be the truth— 

" _He'll wake up!_ " He shouted at his own desperate yearning, and the sound of his voice snapped him out of— of whatever it was. 

He was curled in on himself, both hands clutched around his ears. One of them flew to his side, to bump onto Yamato's scabbard, leaning against his shoulder. He relaxed slightly.

Vittorino was staring at him as if he were a fascinating spectacle.

"I—" Vergil rose to his feet, desperate to leave, "Thank you— but— I must—"

" _The Savior's Kin_ ," Vittorino muttered, and Vergil fell back on his seat like a rock, hand tightening around Yamato, a thumb on her guard. 

"Explain yourself," he hissed.

"Isobella told me," Vittorino said, simply, still staring at him in... wonder, Vergil finally recognized.

"What?" Vergil asked, his thumb lowering slightly.

"I just assumed you were a charlatan, when she did," he said, still too calm for a sickly man standing in front of an armed one. "But she said she heard it from the demons you slew. That they crawled out of the ground hissing the Savior's name, cursing his bloodline as you struck them down—"

"She... _heard_ them," Vergil muttered, staring poleaxed at Vittorino. "Unbelievable. Humans can't—"

He closed his mouth. Humans could, of course, extraordinary ones. Witches, priestesses, scholars, alchemists, and descendants thereof. His father had been a gathering fulcrum for many such people; it wasn't strange that Fortuna, his previous home, would be a hotbed of the magically inclined.

"So it _is_ true!" Vittorino said, and he was grinning, to Vergil's horror. " _Incredible!_ Everyone in Capulet thought the Savior was a fairytale, and I assumed everyone on the mainland— but— so there _is_ another community of his descendants out there!"

"Not anymore," Vergil gritted his teeth, lowering Yamato at last, and Vittorino's shoulders rose.

"Oh," he said. "I'm sorry."

"How many people know?" Vergil asked, eager to avoid that topic. "How many did she tell this to?"

"Just me," Vittorino shrugged. It looked like shaking a bag of bones. It occurred to Vergil that the man had, in fact, drunk a lot of whiskey. "Bella always tells me everything, she knows I don't tell on her. I poked around with Guillermo, too, but he knew much less than I did. If you want to keep a low profile, you're safe. But if you want my take—"

"I don't," Vergil said, quickly.

"You'll get more traction if you make a claim, even if it's just of being, like, a lost branch from the—"

"I _really—_ " Vergil insisted.

"With your strength," Vittorino whipped a long unsteady arm at the books Vergil had relocated, as if that had been an impressive display, "and with Nero's—"

" _What!?_ " Vergil slapped the book-table with a muffled, unsatisfying thud. A few covers flapped open. "What did Nero— is he—"

If Nero were already exhibiting signs of demonic power, then all his efforts...

"He's so strong!" Vittorino said, cheerfully, oblivious to Vergil's concern. "He's not even three yet, and I've already seen him push a four-year-old bully on his bum. Very smart too, although he does still introduce himself as 'Newo'."

"Oh," said Vergil, sitting back in relief, then tensing in annoyance. "That's nothing," he huffed, then thought of a child speaking the word _Newo_ , and changed his mind. 

"What _is_ waking up, anyway?" Vittorino asked, blithely. "In the context of the Savior's kin?"

Vergil tightened his lips. He would rather not... but Vittorino seemed, at the very least, well-intentioned. And he already knew plenty. Even if both he and Isobella had made, ironically, the opposite of tall assumptions. 

_Kin of Sparda_. A convenient understatement.

"I could lift my own weight at three," Vergil began, carefully. "At five years old, I was already training with weighted swords. At seven," he raised Yamato slightly, "I was deemed ready to wield one of the _family relics_ , and was initiated in her secrets. And at eight," his hand tightened around Yamato's scabbard, "I was under pursuit, alone in the world, fighting for my life. My home razed, my brother missing. Coping with the ramifications of my ancestry." He swallowed. " _Avenging_ my mother." 

He glared at Vittorino, hoping to impart a measure of his seriousness.

"My father had expected the worst to happen," he continued, watching Vittorino sober up by degrees. "He took steps to ensure our safety, all in vain. We lived anonymously, our powers, our _legacy_ —" his hand squeezed Yamato once again— "kept secret from ourselves, for our sake. But we were _awake_ since birth. Heightened senses, faster healing, strength, agility. We never knew normalcy, and learned from early on to hide our skills among other children. But it wasn't enough. Lies were not enough. Spells and secret passages were not enough." He stared into Vittorino's eyes. "This blood _will_ , inexorably, attract the Prince of Darkness' grudge."

He swallowed, took a deep breath.

"And now I must ask you," he said, forcibly calm, "if you noticed any heightened demon activity around Nero."

"No," Vittorino said, immediately. His throat moved silently before he continued. "Not... any more than the usual, as far as anyone has taken notice. Demons are endemic to the island, and the Order has always kept up. Whether _they_ noticed anything..."

"...is for me to investigate," Vergil concluded. "As I have been doing."

They fell into a tense silence. 

"Wouldn't the Order protect—" Vittorino began.

" _No._ " Vergil said immediately.

Vittorino stared at him, quietly, and... well. Isobella had taken the revelation surprisingly well, back then. Why not?

"The Order is compromised," he whispered, watching Vittorino's eyes pop open in horror.

" _Demons?_ " he hissed in response, recoiling against his books. 

One of the stacks slid down the sofa, scattering heavy leather and thick cardboard hardcovers in many long seconds of flapping and thudding.

"Worse than that," Vergil whispered, as the noise died down. " _Humans_. Petty, corrupted and ambitious. Sparda sealed many secrets in this land that only his blood may unlock. They would not be above bleeding a child for such bounty."

Vittorino paled, even more than was his usual; the bruises under his sunken eyes went green.

"P-perhaps..." he mumbled, looking lost, "if we appealed directly to— to His Holiness—"

Vergil sighed, shook his head pityingly.

"His _Holiness_ ," he whispered, "is the most depraved among them. Unless—" he raised his head— "is it still Sanctus?"

Vittorino nodded.

"Oh," Vergil slumped. "Then yes. The worst of the lot."

The silence fell back among them, heavier than an alchemical pharmacology tome.

Vittorino perked up.

"You want pizza?" he asked, in a normal tone of voice, already standing from his seat.

Vergil watched him weave unsteadily around the books, in the direction of an incongruent, surprisingly modern button phone hanging from the wall. _You have the wrong twin_ , he almost said, but— 

"Oh, why not," he sighed, shook his head to himself. "Sure. It's been years."

Vittorino paused with a finger over the hook. "Please don't make me worry about the _three_ of you," he complained, before angrily dialing his number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: I am constantly under pursuit by hellish hordes who hate my—  
> Vitto:  
> Vergil: ...............my great mumble-mumble grandmumble


	13. Prelude to the Oracularium

They shared a mozzarella and oregano pizza and a can of soda, while Vittorino filled him in on the specifics he'd found of Isobella's situation. 

"As I said, the Chantry of the Candelary is _traditional_ ," he said, brandishing a sheaf of papers while Vergil widened the table with more books from the sofa. He'd gone back to his room to fetch his research, and as he awkwardly dropped his pile of folders and notes, in English, Italian, Greek _and_ Latin, Vergil's opinion of him rose exponentially. "So I dug up what I could from the library, and I think I can pinpoint _where_ in the Chantry they're keeping her."

He spread the papers haphazardly, over the table, a half-eaten pizza slice in his other hand. 

"So the Chantry was one of the first buildings raised specifically to worship the Savior, after his Heavenly Ascension," Vittorino said, then added, with some hesitation, "which from these old sources sounds more like he just moved out after reorganizing the government, but I don't think I'm _supposed_ to think like that." He jabbed a scrawled building plan with a greasy finger. "As the name implies, it made candles imbued with the Savior's blessing, to keep demons at bay. Still does on the side, but they're pricey and mostly sold to tourists and I don't think they're the same recipe." He raised a few stapled sheets, covered in Latin text, then set them aside. "I've got some instructions here. If the nuns did half this shit nowadays they'd be excommunicated."

He took a bracing sip of his soda— not spiked, thankfully— before getting back to his notes.

"So three centuries ago they built a tower annex," he tapped the building plans again, "called the Oracularium. Basically nuns would volunteer for seclusion and privation, to purify themselves enough to receive divine prophecies. Now, the text made a big fuss of its implementation, because there _had_ been an Oracularium before and it was shut down at the time of Santa Frederica. So I went for the earliest copy of her essays I could access—"

Vergil was already leafing through the stapled-together sheaf of candle instructions, examining the inexpertly drawn but mostly accurate copies of alchemical arrays with amazement. Research in Fortuna had been like extracting sap from a stone, most of it accomplished only by shameless exploiting of blood-activated secret passages. And here... the son of an aristocrat, of course, could just waltz in through the front door and request some obscure texts, then copy them by hand in perfect Latin along with annotations. 

No wonder Isobella got him a library permit so easily.

As for Santa Frederica— she had, it turned out, written extensively on the Oracularium, none of it remotely flattering. In fact, it seemed quite likely that her efforts were the cause of its dismantling, and may possibly have inspired her nomination to sainthood. 

Santa Frederica, She Who Uncovered Lies and Confronted Cruelties, had exposed the abominable conditions those nuns had been kept in, from ritualistic starvation to sensory deprivation, and then taken the matter directly to— 

"Fa—" Vergil stammered, " _Sparda_? Santa Frederica lived concurrently with his rule?"

"I know," Vittorino muttered, shuffling through his papers and pulling out a specific few. "This throws the Order's calendar completely out of whack, but it makes the most sense. I'm putting together a corrected timeline, here," he set his papers by Vergil's elbow, "it's unfinished, but it's something. As for the old Oracularium, its actual date of founding isn't anywhere that I could find. I think it predated the Savior." 

It had to. According to Santa Frederica and other sources of her time, the Lord Sparda had _rushed the tower in a great hurry_ (or perhaps _fury_ ), followed by an incensed mob, then tried to parlay with its priestesses before barging in, alone. The citizens outside aided in the emptying of the Oracularium, carrying the insensate and the dead to safety, while Sparda's Knights combed the edifice for documentation. 

Then Sparda struck the tower down into rubble, in _a mighty and wondrous display_. 

"But now the _Savior_ is the one handing out prophecies," Vittorino sneered into his glass. "And here I hoped to write a full dossier for the Order. Good thing I found you first."

Indeed, Vergil thought. There was no way the Order hadn't known of the Oracularium's origins, both during its rebuilding and in current times. Vittorino had certainly avoided _some_ sort of regretful and unfortunate accident. 

...but that might also mean the original Oracularium had been, despite everything, effective in some way. At least enough to make it worth reviving.

Vittorino was adamantly sure it was not.

"Santa Frederica was very thorough," he insisted, pushing papers off the table to uncover those particular notes. (Vergil relocated the empty pizza box to place the papers back on it.) "None of this is remotely _purifying_ ," he spat the word, "it's just a recipe for chronic malnutrition. They literally had choreographed care routines for a dozen simultaneous bedridden. If they got anything at all from these women, it was nothing but famine-induced hallucinations."

"That might be more than enough," Vergil mused. "We sit on top of a fault in Sparda's seal, a very sharp thinning of the barrier between worlds, which even required the Hell Gate for reinforcement. And time in the Underworld passes differently from the Human World— a minute may be a century, and vice-versa. If an altered state of mind can be induced that leads to tapping into that different perception of time—"

"There are _drugs_ for that!" Vittorino argued. "Even back then, they had herbs, mushrooms, alcohol, any of that would have been _easier_ to procure than years of—"

"But what if they introduce noise?" Vergil pointed out. "The shamanic usage of hallucinogens does _not_ require a fault-line in the Seal. More often than not, they serve as much to discourage outside entities from possessing the psychic as they serve to help the psychic perceive the entity. Which reminds me— only certain people would have been receptive to temporal variations in the first place. Such powers are rare. I'm not arguing that the Oracularium created any true oracles, back then or right now, but it _had_ to have proved its efficacy a few times, to justify its existence to those in charge."

"And I tell you it _did_ ," Vittorino slapped his papers, his face twisting into a mask of disgust. "By hiding inconvenient women. I have a list of the last forty years of internments, and they were all—"

Vergil's eyebrows shot up. "In the _Library_?"

Vittorino smirked, raised a thick binder, and laid it on top of his notes with a slap. 

They were newspaper photocopies, gossip columns and society pages and obituaries cut and arranged by date, grouped together by subject. They were, as mentioned, inconvenient women— madwomen speaking heresies, harlots making _totally_ baseless accusations against respected members of the clergy or aristocracy, and, yes, a great many pregnancies outside of wedlock. Internment in the Oracularium was usually mentioned very quickly, in passing, and as if it were a kinder fate than some other implied punishment. In one truly revolting instance, it was touted as a reward for the uncovering of an unspecified crime by unspecified people. The obituaries were worded the same for most of them, with the occasional acknowledgment of someone's noble ancestry, and claiming natural causes for the deaths. 

Each of them had a note in Vittorino's cursive, with the number of years between reported internment and reported obit. The average life expectancy was five years.

"We don't have much time," Vittorino said, anxiously, and that was when Vergil caught onto the fact that he was joining a heist.

Well, why not? He had, in a way, put Isobella in this sorry predicament. The responsibility may lay squarely in her horrid parents' shoulders, but their affair had been its linchpin. And... she'd been a bright, vivacious girl, beautiful and upsettingly reckless, curvy and stout and solid. And she'd been dealing gracefully with dreadful circumstances he hadn't been aware of. She deserved better.

She was, after all, the mother of h _hh_ — of _Nero_. ( _No possessives._ )

Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose, rode out the _pull_ , and opened his eyes to Vittorino insistently pointing at a particular passage in a particular obituary.

"Angelique the Mad," he said. "Our _heroine_. She hid bomb parts in her vagina, tried to blast through the wall, was killed by shrapnel. Her cell was the closest to the entrance and it was never repaired. The hole is still there."

He tugged the sheaf of Frederica's notes closer, leafed to a particular page, ignored Vergil's horrified grimace. 

"The oracle cells are always filled in a specific order of arrival, and cells are kept vacant if their occupant dies outside of the established order. So Angelique, who was admitted fourteen years ago, got the cell nearest to the door, and that would mean the _next_ victim, Rosalia Tulla, got the _next_ cell over, and so on and so forth—" he turned page after page of unfortunate women, each of them now labeled with a letter, until he made it to Isobella's own page, and victoriously jabbed a big, circled _G_. 

Vergil tugged the building plans back out from under the binder, found a page with a feverish depiction of the Oracularium's cells. They comprised the three topmost floors— the bottom floors held "assorted facilities"— and each floor held four cells. Vittorino had labeled them with letters. 

"This is assuming they're following the old Oracularium methods to the letter," Vittorino admitted, sadly. "If they're not, and are filling the cells as they become available, then—"

"Then I'll check them one by one," Vergil said, calmly.

Vittorino stared at him.

"I... was certainly going to ask for your help, yes," he said. "But I doubt we'll have that much time."

"Not we," Vergil corrected. " _I_."

And he set Yamato on the table.

"This is— one of my family's relics," he said, mindful of his current cover as but a distant descendant of Sparda. "This sword is said to cut through anything, even that which is untouchable and abstract. My lessons were incomplete, and I have yet to uncover many of her secrets, but... in theory, she should be able to cut a path from one point to another, without touching what lies between. Even if that is a wall."

Vittorino gaped, and, thankfully, made no boorish move such as trying to poke the sword. 

"And you— are proficient? In its magic?" He asked, almost shyly. 

"I have never made the attempt," because he'd only found that Order text about a week previous, "but I have drawn out many of her powers by now, even those I was never taught about, and I am confident that I can guide her true."

That he was. Having learned of the possibility, he had soon grasped its logic and outlined a method. He _had_ intended to put it to the test, before he was struck with several days of being completely swamped by _stupid Nero instincts_. 

But now he had a way to cope, and a worthy target for his focus. 

" _Wonderful_ ," Vittorino murmured, his gaunt face blooming into a fairly disturbing smile, and then he jumped from his perch in a burst of energy. "I never— hoped— I need to double check my equipment," he muttered to himself, stepping gingerly around his books, no more signs of alcohol in his gait. "She'll _definitely_ need rehabilitation once we get her out—"

He disappeared into a door, his keyring jangling, his voice coming in muffled as he spoke to himself.

"—for the blood samples..." his voice became inaudible, "...supplements..." something crashed, "...not sure this bed... Vergil!" He poked his head back into the living room, where Vergil had been left to flip awkwardly through the research. "Do you think you can take a blood sample on your own, when you find her?"

"Blood—" Vergil repeated, incredulously, even as Vittorino disappeared back in his hole.

"Nevermind," he said, distantly, "I'll teach you later—" his voice grew louder as he returned, keyring jangling. "We find her first, then we'll know what to prioritize. When do you think you can—"

"Tonight," said Vergil, closing the folder in his hand with a snap. 

"Oh," he said, "I'm not—"

"Going," Vergil dropped the folder. "Two is a crowd. You are hardly the epitome of stealth, Vittorino." 

"In that case," Vittorino stepped up to his seat, nervously, picked another folder from the floor, "I've got some plans for sneaking into the chantry—"

"Isn't there a hole in the tower?" Vergil asked. "From Angelique's escape attempt."

"Yes, but," and Vittorino closed his mouth with a click.

Good. He caught on fast.

"That's more than enough for me," Vergil told him, anyway, and got to his feet. "I'll let you know what I find in the morning, before my shift."

"Yes," Vittorino nodded, eyes wide.

Vergil wondered if there was some social ritual he should engage before departing, decided that the circumstances rendered them moot, stepped over some books, and left the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vitto: Wanna go steal my sister  
> Vergil: ("you beautiful bastard, i'm in" meme)


	14. The Tomb

The Chantry of the Candelary was an ugly building, a shadow hulking against the evening sky. It was located in one of the more neglected areas of the town, surrounded by thick stone walls and some of the cheapest buildings in the island. 

Vergil would know. His rented bedroom was but a few blocks away. 

He'd worn a dark cloak and hood for the sojourn, just in case, and climbed the outer wall in a blink and a flash. The main building looked more solid from up close, sturdier, made not to impress but to last; the annexed tower, built much later and in the style of its time, had aged rather less gracefully. It had no windows, and no entrance save for a bridge connecting its middle to the abbey's top floor. 

Angelique's escape hole was barely visible in the gloom. Small, but serviceable. With but some extra focus, Vergil leapt from _here_ to _there_...

...and he was inside the Oracularium. 

A human might have described the room as pitch-black. Even Vergil had to focus his eyes in order to pierce the gloom, to properly study the construction, evaluate his obstacles. The brick walls were naked, the floor was cold stone. He searched.

It was, he concluded, a completely mundane building. 

No aetherial conduits, glyphs, carvings, no alchemical symbols, or erased remains thereof, no nothing. Whatever rituals were employed in the Oracularium, they were conducted independent of the cells. Which rendered their ordering meaningless, as they could be occupied at random. 

Vittorino had been wrong. Thankfully, Vergil's very presence rendered his error moot. 

He turned to the awkwardly closed entrance, nothing but the singed remains of the old door nailed together with fragile, mildewed boards. An angry kid with a toy machete could have knocked it down— _Vittorino_ could have, and probably _would_ have, to disastrous results (assuming he made it past the walls). 

But he was not to slice it down. Rather— to slice a path between _this_ side of the boards and _that_ side of the boards, without disturbing them. 

He unsheathed Yamato, and focused. On the thin veil, and the malleable barrier, and the flexibility of space and time within the Underworld. 

He carved a hole in reality and stepped through, and the boarded-up door was at his back. 

The corridor beyond was even darker, a narrow pathway hugging a wide central pillar. The inner pillar did hold small windows, Vergil noted; a draft tugged at his hood, cold and biting, and the pale highlighting on the stones hinted at indirect light, likely reflected from the moon. There were still no arrays or channels to be sensed, but Vergil kept his guard up, just in case.

He was so guarded, the paper label on the next door over startled him.

He lowered Yamato, trying not to feel self-conscious in the dark, and squinted at the label. Although "label" was rather a generous description, as he came to note; it was but a sheet of spiral-bound notebook paper, its ripped edge carefully plucked and evened, taped to the door at an angle that was close enough to horizontal to make his brain itch. The paper was warped and stained by humidity, the initials _V.L._ bleeding in starry marker puddles, and surrounded by inexpert doodles of curlicued flowers. 

He supposed he needed not enter this room.

The other rooms also sported their own labels, in varying hands, but only one of them held the initials for Isobella Martinelli— on the third floor, where the current was most still and the ceiling was ancient, dusty wood. He stood at the door, Yamato in hand, and for a second he was unsure of what he, himself, hoped to find on its other side.

But that was a foolish thought. Isobella would be there, or she would not, and that was all he was supposed to find out.

He sliced the world and stepped through.

###

The other side of the door _was_ , in fact, pitch-black.

Vergil focused his sight so intensely, the light of his glowing eyes revealed almost as much as his own enhanced vision. Not that either were revealing much, or that there was much to reveal in the first place. The place felt claustrophobic even before he located its walls, and the very air sat heavy in his lungs, leaving a stale aftertaste in his throat. There were no windows, no holes, no slits, nothing but the gap under the door to allow any fresh air within, and it evidently wasn't enough. 

The fetid smell was almost an afterthought. Sweat, rot, refuse. 

He considered. He was inside a room without openings, within a tower without openings, unguarded, inhabited only by other prisoners; visibility should no longer pose a risk. Emboldened, he manifested a spectral blade over his shoulder, and glanced down at what he assumed was a cot—

The blade went out, and Vergil tripped back on his heels into a wall.

 _There was a_ — no.

Now braced, he summoned the blade again, stared at the cot, and kept his eyes upon it until he was certain he knew what he was looking at.

It was an emaciated corpse in a linen blanket.

This was... absurd, even for the standards of a cult under dubious leadership. Did they simply abandon the women within their cells, to starve and die upon their beds, forgotten? It made no sense. Not to mention... in this heat and humidity, shouldn't she have long since rotted?

He approached, slowly, in case the dead body turned out to be occupied. If the Oracularium were a body-harvesting front for housing demons—

But the Order had its own devil-summoning protocols, and it required no corpses. Had he stumbled upon a different faction? Was there infighting within the Order? This would complicate matters for h _hhh_ — for _Nero_ — shit—

He fell on his ass, his spectral blade brightening and flickering wildly, as it hit him that he was contemplating factions upon _Isobella's shrunken cadaver_.

And then, before his very eyes, as his blade reacted to the onslaught of his confused Nero-centric emotions, the chest under the linen blanket rose, and then fell.

She was _breathing_.

He stared at the emaciated body, the shrunken face of his once-lover. Her eyes were sunken crevices, with papery lids covering protruding eyeballs; her skin was stretched tight onto bones, into hollows. Her jaw was half-open, slack, revealing ghastly atrophied gums and a few missing teeth. Her hair was brittle, missing in chunks.

His sight lowered, onto the thin neck, the sharp collarbones, the one beauty spot that used to lie halfway down the smooth, soft rise of her chest but which now lay half-hidden in the crevice between two ribs. 

Her ribs expanded. Her ribs relaxed. Her ribs were prominent as the bars of a cage.

She was still alive— but only barely, and only in the barest sense of the word. He was too late, Vittorino was too late. It would be kinder to... to end her misery. 

His hand sought Yamato, and his eyes burned with the afterimage of blood on a carpet, a waterfall of hair. Embers. 

Isobella's chest rose, then fell. She didn't... what little hair she even had left was _mostly_ dark. 

But.

She was clearly not going to survive the night. What difference would a paltry few hours make, after years of torment?

Yes, he told himself, letting go of Yamato's scabbard with traitorous relief. She was already long insensate, a husk and little else. Not to mention— his mind latched onto the thought as the drowning to a rope— the nuns were sure to come check on her, right? They had to, to maintain any living being in this state. A sliced neck would raise too many uncomfortable questions. It might invite undue scrutiny towards her close kin, and possibly Nero. This was... better. _Safer._ For everyone involved.

Vergil turned back to the door, unsheathed Yamato, sliced the air, and fled his cowardice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: oh shit jumpscare  
> Vergil: oh shit it’s my ex


	15. Telling tales

Vergil did not consider what to tell Vittorino until he was back in his rented bedroom, putting his Order uniform back on, the sky pale with the impending sunrise. 

It had been... a strange evening, passing him by like mist. He required little sleep— and knew better than to try after that sojourn— but once he'd returned to Miss Pascalini's house, and even accepted her kindly offered but also unnecessary dinner, he'd walked into his room and accomplished a goal that had eluded him for weeks: not thinking.

He'd sat in a daze until the distant blare of the first ferry had snapped him out of it. And as he buttoned his white coat through a fog of unreality, he recalled his arrangement with Vittorino, and his mind remained empty.

He snapped out of it halfway down the Blade, as his eyes caught the triangular shape of Vittorino in his oversized coat, standing by the front steps of his apartment building. The sight filled him with shameful dread.

Vittorino spotted him, his face brightening with expectation, and Vergil recalled once thinking him gaunt. How... how was he to break such news? This was his sister, long mistreated and deeply wronged, whom he'd toiled alone for years for a chance at rescuing. _Your work was in vain_ , he rehearsed in his mind. _I am truly sorry._ God, such cheap, pathetic words. 

His footsteps had slowed in his hesitation. Vittorino swept towards him, like a very hopeful bat. 

"Did it work?" He asked, breathlessly, from either excitement or his asthma. "Your... heirloom's technique?"

"Oh— yes," Vergil nodded, distracted, then had the sudden unpleasant feeling of an opportunity passing him by. 

Vittorino grinned his weird, creepy grin, eyes shining, and Vergil immediately regretted his previous answer.

"She— she was..." his mouth started talking before his brain was done stumbling, "...not in the room you had marked," he heard himself say.

Well, she wasn't, he told himself, feeling like a child making poor excuses.

Vittorino's face fell minimally. "I see," he looked thoughtful. "Did you search the other rooms, as you said you would?"

"Not... all of them," Vergil mumbled, throat constricting with shame; and said shame was, perhaps, the reason why his mouth kept moving. "I will be returning this evening."

Vittorino nodded, still thoughtful. "I'm truly sorry," he said, unaware that he was the one owed apologies. "I didn't even think of the toll it must take, to call upon such powers."

It was about as much effort as breathing, Vergil meant to say, but that sense of _opportunity_ pressed upon him again, and he kept his mouth closed— and then it hit him that, oh, Vittorino thought that... that he hadn't investigated every single room in one night because using Yamato was physically taxing, or something. 

He laid a hand upon Vittorino's shoulder, overcome with a need to disabuse him of any concern or admiration or any remotely positive opinion of him whatsoever. 

"Do not concern yourself with that," he said instead, feeling like a bastard of the purest ray serene. "She is in the third floor. That much I have confirmed."

And more, but.

Vittorino nodded, face filled with determination, and Vergil couldn't help but think of Dante's own naiveté, his silly propensity for heroics. If... if it were Dante, wasting away somewhere outside his reach, and he had to depend on someone else for news— what would be the hardest to take, news of his impending death, or news of his already deceased status?

The question haunted him for the rest of the morning, and he could but thank whatever instinct had driven him to buy himself time to think, shameful as it had been.

Not that the little coterie of newly minted knights he'd been attached to would give him the opportunity. He returned from the daily culling at the Order's perimeter only to be accosted by the bunch of baby-faced wannabe swordsmen that comprised his... his group thing.

He did not pay much attention to the Order's ranking system.

"Heeeey there!" One of them said, entirely too friendly to be sincere. "What's your name again? Virgin?"

"I wish," Vergil muttered, to the group's boisterous amusement. They were surrounding him in a rather poor attempt at strategic positioning. "It's Vergil, but I forgive your poor hearing."

"Alright, Vergin!" The boy said, cheekily, slapping his shoulder. "You have lunch yet? We never see you at the mess hall."

"That would be because I am never there."

"Well, we _want_ you there, dude!" The boy said, with forced cheer, his hand squeezing Vergil's shoulder in a manner that was, perhaps, meant to dig into his muscles. "Why not have some lunch, get to know each other better?" 

Was this an attempt at hazing? He'd assumed they'd been avoiding him, although to be fair he, too, had been avoiding them. But he supposed it was but a matter of time; their curiosity would have gotten the better of their xenophobia eventually. 

"I suppose I have no other obligations for the time being," he conceded, allowing himself to be led by the pitifully non-threatening gang. 

They did, in fact, lead him to a noisy sort of restaurant, instead of to some secluded corner he might feel forced to kick their asses in. The hall had a look of being both easy to clean and perennially dirty, and a serpentine line of uniformed low-rank knights led to a counter manned by scowling old women. The tables might, with some effort, sit fifty simultaneous adult men; but despite looking quite crowded, it was hardly filled to capacity.

He found himself the center of attention upon arrival, with much hooting and clapping and cries of ' _the outsider!_ ' directed at him.

Oh, goody, he was famous. Hopefully not enough to be talked about at Sanctus' table.

"So!" One of them asked, as the group none-too-subtly herded him towards an unoccupied table. "It's not everyday that a foreigner up and joins the Order! They just come to gawk and buy our trash then leave. That sure is different, right?"

They all sat, watching him eagerly— and then awkwardly, as Vergil gave the one remaining chair a firm whap with Yamato's scabbard that pushed the detached wooden legs back into their pegs.

He sat down, leaned back into the chair and made himself very comfortable.

"It would seem very unusual, indeed," he said, "for those who know little of the world outside. To me, it was but logical."

He studied his so-called "peers", half-hoping they'd ask further questions. He felt like testing his wit, and these rubes could be discreetly silenced, should it come to that.

"So, uh," one of them started, hesitantly, before being interrupted by the blurted question of another:

"Is it true they don't believe in the Savior out there?"

Vergil raised his eyebrows, impressed despite himself. At least one of these men wasn't here to faff around.

"That," he thought for a second, "is an _excellent_ question. It's also terribly phrased. Quite leading. The whole world knows of the Dark Knight Sparda, of course. What they _believe_ of him is another matter entirely."

"That's not an answer," the man said, fixing him with a suspicious glare. "Are they heretics or not? Are _you?_ "

Vergil smirked. "That's hardly for me to decide. I know the Dark Knight Sparda existed; I know he fought on behalf of humankind; I know he sealed the pathway between worlds; and I know he ruled this land. Whether or not I relate to these facts in an approved manner, I leave for the judgment of our Elders— but they _are_ facts."

He watched the man's shoulders relax by a single inch, felt the breath being collectively released by the eavesdroppers in the room.

"For most of the world, however," he continued. "Those are _myths_."

The room exploded in indignant voices.

Vergil tuned out the chaos, sipped water from one of his table-mates' glass. It felt good to be in control of something, after so long being barely in control of his own self.

The reminder soured his mood a little. He set the glass down back in its place, crossed his legs with wider movements than strictly needed; a reassertion of his presence.

" _How_ —" a hapless youth slapped both hands on the table, spilling that one glass down its owner's lap, "how do they think the Underworld was even sealed? That makes no—"

"They _think_ ," Vergil sneered— at the boy, not at the world— "that the Underworld is a myth. And before you ask," Vergil cut him off with a raised hand, "they think _devils_ are a myth. Demons, monsters, the Prince of Darkness himself." He looked around himself, at the humans no longer pretending to not be listening in. "The deeds of the Savior are passed down from parent to child as bedtime stories, written in small words and illustrated in pastels. Outside of Fortuna, demons are rarely seen, and even less often recognized. They may as well not exist."

Someone set a small plate of fries by his elbow. 

"Oh!" He said, pleased, and helped himself to a single one; "thank you," he told the cocoon of curious humans hovering around him, "and that is what the world believes," he concluded, solemnly raising his fry. "They see no devils, thus there never were devils, and therefore Sparda is but a beautiful lie told to lull children into a peaceful sleep."

"But you... you know the truth," one of his original accosters pointed out. "Even though you're from outside."

Vergil popped his single fry in his mouth, chewed unhurriedly, nodded slowly. Took a sip from someone else's unspilled glass, set it back down exactly where it was.

"Sometimes," he said, mildly, "a child may be fortunate enough— or unfortunate enough, one might say— to witness a devil's attack, and to survive to tell the tale. And the adults who hear his tale might say: this poor child, so shocked, seeing things that don't exist. And they will dissect the child's tale; they will pick that which they believe in, they will discard that which they don't believe in, and they will fill the gaps with a tale of their own creation. And, sometimes, the child will think: maybe I really was mistaken. Maybe I thought it was a demon, but it was a bear. But sometimes—" he plucked another fry from his plate— "the child will know better. And the child will grow up to pursue the truth. Thus a Devil Hunter is born." 

He regarded his fry solemnly. "It is a thankless job, that weeds out the unfit without mercy," he mused. "But breeds excellence in those who remain. Even if," his lip curled, "there is a preference for _firearms_ among the category. But," he shrugged, "there is no unified corps such as the Order out there. Efficiency is key."

He ate his second fry, then dusted his gloved hands for effect. His audience seemed to be regarding him anew, which he appreciated; people muttered and hissed to each other, unwilling to break the silence, unaware that he could hear their confusion just fine.

"Sounds like you had a difficult life, bro," one of the boys at the table offered him, like a sheepish apology.

"That I did," Vergil nodded slowly, smirking internally, waiting for—

"No one believed you?" Another, older knight asked, looking stricken. "You survived a demon attack and they pretended it was some mundane animal?"

"Oh?" Vergil cocked his head theatrically, before chuckling mildly. "Oh! I see. I'm sorry, I seem to have induced a misunderstanding. The child in my tale was just an example. It was not my story."

"Ah—" some other kid started, but Vergil continued, filled with satisfaction.

"No, I knew from the start that I would never be believed. Why waste my breath? I fled, and hid, and trained. Well-meaning caretakers would be a hindrance."

He did not have an opportunity to study the effect of his claim upon the group, unfortunately, as the conglomerate shifted and broke at the sound of a gruff, authoritative voice.

"What the shit is going on? What's this? Everybody scatter! Fuck off if you're not eating!" Men hurried back to their tables, or out of the room. "Shoo! _Shoo!_ "

Vergil's audience abandoned the table entirely, including the table-mates who'd led him there in the first place; and the burly, middle-aged knight who'd shooed them away grabbed a fistful of Vergil's fries, then sat heavily at one of the newly vacant chairs.

"These brats giving you trouble, kiddo?" Asked the man, through a mouthful of half-chewed fries. 

"Sergeant Filippo," Vergil said, greeting the newcomer with a nod. "They only wished to know about my past."

"You were a devil hunter. What more do they need? Stupid children." He ran a hard, unimpressed glare through the sheepish throng, now wholly focused on their respective food trays. "And second sons, the whole lot of them," he muttered with a sneer. "Figures."

Among the knights of the Order, Vergil had come to learn, the term _second son_ held a different meaning from the rest of the island. It usually referred to young aristocrats, regardless of their placement in the line of inheritance, who were pushed into knighthood by their families for the sake of representing their interests within the Order. Scions who enlisted voluntarily and applied themselves were not included in the term; _second sons_ as an insult referred only to the true brats, those who cared nothing for their true duties.

Such families tended to expect preferential treatment for these sons, and the _sons_ certainly demanded it, at times loudly. But demons on the field were unlikely to afford extra consideration to nobility. Aristocrats were of course prioritized for advancement; but a knight who proved himself a second son would find his promotions shuffling him sideways rather than upwards, and was soon outranked by poorer but worthier warriors. 

For all its failings, the military branch of the Order was as egalitarian as the island could get.

"Don't let this trash push you around, kiddo," said the Sergeant, who had angered way too many second sons, aristocratic and not, to receive his due promotions, but not enough to lose the respect of his superiors. "They give you any guff, you come straight to me and I'll sort it out. But," he grinned, "you're looking pretty good! Guess you're doing better now, huh?"

Vergil smiled and nodded once, conceding the fact to the only man in the Order to earn his respect.

Not that he could have looked any worse than he had at their first meeting— he assumed; he'd had neither mirror, nor the presence of mind to check his appearance at the time.

Two weeks back upon the island had had him at the brink of madness. He'd only just understood the source of the mysterious spell that had him so thoroughly ensnared upon arrival, and the realization had intensified it exponentially, Nero's metaphorical hands wrapped firmly around his mind and _squeezing_. 

(He could not recall how realization had happened, only that it had, and then disabled him on the spot.)

For days he'd hunkered amid boulders and trash at a cliff-side beach, not eating, not sleeping, barely daring to breathe lest he lose his focus. At times, he would suddenly no longer recall why he was shrinking back from that lovely warm glow; more often, he would slip into disoriented fugues and forget why he was hiding at all, or where he was, or the date, or his own age—

Discipline alone had held him together in such times. And once he had recovered a sliver of his sanity, he'd stumbled back into the city, the tourist-packed main avenue, towards an armored Knight, and said:

"I wish to join the Order."

And Sergeant Filippo had raised his visor, taken in Vergil's bedraggled self, and said:

"My shift ends in two hours, I'll take you there if you don't mind the wait."

And Vergil had nodded in a daze and sat on the curb right there, knowing only that the sooner he'd ensured Nero's safety, the sooner his struggle would end, and that this involved being in the Order for reasons no longer recalled. 

Then a cluster of scarecrows had attacked and Vergil had launched himself at them out of habit, forgetting the profusion of knights and tourists in the area, sticking to physical strikes because his powers were baiting his flimsy control; and later the Sergeant had guided his light-headed, stumbling self to the Headquarters' building, kept him company, handed him water and some awful crackers, and somehow ensured not only his recruitment, but the safety of his meager possessions.

"You look proper rested, finally!" He was saying now, cheerfully, pointing at Vergil's face with a second fistful of fries. "And better fed, too, that's for sure. Even though I don't see you much here."

"Miss Pascalini provides me with food," Vergil told him, albeit not the part where she only did so in the evenings. (As for being rested, Nero's name had provided him with more peace of mind than a fortnight of sleep; but that wasn't for anyone to know.)

"Good for her," Filippo nodded wisely to himself. "She must be glad of the company, my lad, it'll do you both good. She'd have a lad your age if she got to wed, you know."

"I didn't," Vergil said, fishing a few remaining fries for himself. Miss Pascalini was barely forty, by his estimates. But then again... "Although that sounds like a tale she should tell at her leisure."

"Well said, boy," Filippo dusted the salt off his hands, then stood up. "Now come on over! And you lot too," he turned a glare towards a few specific second sons still hunched over their plates. "Today is activation drills with Caliburns! And don't you even start," he pointed at Vergil, who had very carefully not reacted at all. "You may have your fancy blade, but I won't have anyone look down on these dependable girls!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past Vergil: (fifteen minutes after disembarking in Fortuna) Huh, funny… I sense no threat but I keep having this urge to bare my teeth. My cheeks are tingly and I can’t sit still. Is this the devil flu
> 
> Weeks later, as he hunkers high off his gourd from the potent baby fumes wafting in from the other side of the island: Mommy… why am I lying on sodden trash bags


	16. The Tomb, again

The drills were as dull as they were easy. Vergil had mastered the slight-flick-of-the-wrist-on-impact at his third swing on his first day, then kept failing to forget it at every subsequent training session. A few others had managed to display steady success, and those Filippo put to coaching the stragglers ("Not _you_ , you suck at explaining," he'd told Vergil eventually, to his relief). So Vergil would cycle through broadsword stances and iaido katas and try to keep his churning mind busy. 

Now that he was dealing with less churning, his mind was occupied instead with thoughts of Isobella's death, and Vittorino's likely reaction to its news. Was her cell already empty? Were her initials already removed from her door? If he told Vittorino _your sister is no longer within the tower_ , would he believe it? Would he blame Vergil? Would he try to invade the chantry and see for himself?

Vittorino was his sole source of news on Nero. He would rather not have to find another. 

That evening, Vergil slipped out of his room at the strike of midnight, made his way to the chantry, up the wall, into Angelique's cell, and sliced the world before the boarded door, intent on seeing the tragedy through one way or another. He would confirm Isobella's demise, and he would inform Vittorino, and they would both focus on Nero's safety, and eventually on their revenge—

But Isobella's emaciated body was still breathing. 

...certainly, the water-warped label had been in place, but that had meant little. A paper may be left behind, when one is moving corpses. But this... this was— unlikely? Extremely unlikely. Isobella was no less moribund than she had been the previous night, cold and cadaverous under the blue glow of his summoned sword, and yet... she persisted. 

Vergil stared at his ex-lover's steadily rising chest, feeling adrift and pathetically foiled. 

How presumptuous of him.

He released his breath in a soft sigh, allowing the sickly smell to assault his senses. Presumptuous, indeed, to expect her to die at his convenience. Even unconscious, atrophied, miserable and insensate, that would never be Isobella's way. She did as she willed, in spite of and to spite the very world and nature itself. 

He pictured her, even now, turning that ghastly face to him, her rictus widening, and saying something to the effect of— surprised, handsome?— and most likely wiggling her depleted eyebrows. 

She would do it. She would absolutely capitalize on her horrid state to scandalize him. 

He managed, somehow, a small bittersweet smirk. He owed her this, did he not? To stand vigil, to witness her final moments of defiance. She probably clung to this waning half-life for no reason other than someone had wished her dead. Or perhaps she had been... waiting for him. For that silly teenager, the optimist, the hopeless romantic who'd sworn to return, if she swore to—

 _I came back_ , he mouthed into the oppressive silence. _I came back, and you are still here_.

Promises were kept, despite everything. He searched the cell for a spot, a good angle, and sat on the floor. It was swept, although inexpertly. The nuns did provide some upkeep to their prisoners, it seemed. 

He settled back to watch the rise and fall of Isobella's ribs, braced for her final exhale, and strove to recall her as she had been: ferocious, callous, warped, sharp and jagged, and also subtle, warm, beautiful, soft and pliant— in his hands, under his body. She had been so beautiful, so strange, and at times so very frightening, in the way of small animals who leapt into the windshields of speeding vehicles.

 _To the sea God bestowed peril and the abyss, yet upon it he mirrored the heavens._ (*)

He stopped thinking of her body as it was then, lest he awakened a yearning for physical comfort. He was no longer eighteen; the person he had become could not afford such human sentimentality. 

...Isobella would probably laugh and point out that he was barely twenty-two. 

But he would say in return: if eternity can be held in an hour, then four years may well contain eons. The first one after their parting had been so unfathomably long, he could no longer relate to the boy he had been at its start; and as he sat in Isobella's dismal cell, awaiting her final breath, he could not even recognize the boy he had become at its end.

She breathed.

Time crawled past like a ponderous beast, measured by her silent exhales. It didn't seem strange, the thought that all clocks would stop the moment she did, her passing simultaneously monumental and inconspicuous as the eruption of a seabed volcano. Fortuna would feel its tremors and flounder under its tidal wave, but only later, cause and effect too far removed to be associated; it seemed fitting, for the ignorant to writhe in ignorance.

And still she breathed.

Had she seen— Nero? Had she held Nero in her arms, before they were tossed out in opposing directions? Had she tried to flee, as Angelique the Mad once had? According to Vittorino, she had been fresh off her labor when she was discarded into the chantry. Were it not the case, Vergil could imagine her hiding a risky, hare-brained means of escape within her own body, caring less for her flight than for the prospect of mayhem. She had been so alive, so burningly reckless. To leave her imprisoned and wasting away in this dark chamber was the greatest crime the island could have committed against her.

Yet, somehow, she breathed.

What was the time? His internal clock guessed at four in the morning, but in the silent, dark cell it was impossible to truly know. Soon it would be time to prepare for the day. He should return before five; Miss Pascalini often wandered about the house before sunrise, and she sometimes checked into his room through the small matte glass pane that adorned his door. It shouldn't be possible for human eyes to perceive much through them, and yet she always seemed to know whether he had been in bed or not...

He chased these and other inane thoughts, glancing back at the cot in expectation of stillness, and every time, every single time— he caught her breathing.

Vergil stood up, clenched Yamato's scabbard. This _impossible_ woman— this utterly absurd, incredible little wisp of a woman! Would she really— it was preposterous, for her to last yet another night, but it had been no less preposterous in his previous visit. She had been preposterous at every single second of their acquaintance, and truly, he was the fool to assume this would change. 

He walked back to the cot, gazed into her face. It put him in mind of a mummified queen: every single shred of beauty and youth gone, leaving but taut skin, dried flesh, flaking hair, yet the majesty somehow remained. And suddenly he was overwhelmed— not by the mysterious magic that bound him to Nero, but by a deep awareness of his own overweening pettiness. 

For years, he'd chased after hints of power, clues towards strength, pulled thread after thread in the tapestry of his legacy, unhampered by any familial obligations or human connections; Isobella, and his own silly promise to her, could not have been furthest from his mind. Months ago, when he had boarded that ferry back to Fortuna, her very existence had long slipped from his memory. 

Were it not for... for Nero, and for the vise he'd tied around his heart, Vergil would have done his silly little research and then— left.

And Isobella would have died alone.

_Give me a sign, or give me death._

__

"Isobella," he said, and then swallowed his breath; after hours of silent contemplation, his voice sounded loud and intrusive to his own ears, even as the still, dead air rendered it flat. Surely, if anyone was conscious within the tower, they would have heard him.

__

But Isobella did not react. She merely breathed.

__

"Isobella," he said again, in a whisper. "I..."

__

He had no idea what to say. 

__

I was a fool. I _am_ a fool. I am sorry. I— meaningless, all meaningless. He'd always believed in deeds over words, but what was there left to do? No action of his could possibly stay this course. Anything he did in this cell, in this night, would only hold significance within his own mind.

__

So be it, then.

__

Vergil perched onto the cot, carefully, by her side, leaned over her. The glow of his summoned sword, shining closer now, put every pit and crevice of her skull in sharp relief, exposing her haggardness in all its horror. The smell of her breath was nauseating. 

__

God, she was hideous. A shell, a shadow, a ghoul. 

__

He'd merely thought to— but what manner of man would take a woman, kiss and love her at her pinnacle, and turn away at her nadir? Not any man he had a wish to be, although he feared, in hindsight, that he'd been on course to becoming something worse. He had Nero to thank, clearly, for yanking him so far off his track as to glimpse its unsavory end.

__

Affection warmed his veins, not magical, not overwhelming, but sweet and bracing, and it shored up his resolve. He owed her this. He owed her many, many things, but this alone he had the means to offer.

__

He leaned down, slowly, touched his lips to her upper lip. Very gently, very carefully, she was so fragile— he couldn't help but fear she would turn to dust under the lightest weight. A measly, miserable little kiss; the poorest excuse for a goodbye.

__

He leaned back, and his hand spontaneously rose to daub at his chin, seeking the source of a tickling touch. Her saliva, perhaps. 

__

It was solid.

__

He drew his hand back, stared at the thing stuck to his fingertips.

__

It was a tooth.

__

His eyes turned to Isobella, to squalid, haggard, dying Isobella, to the brand new gap in her protruding gums, amid her loosened teeth. The fresh hole where this one specimen used to be, barely glistening. 

__

He stumbled back from the cot— his blade went out— his blood beat thick in his ears— the room spun in the dark— 

__

He slashed the air and jumped through in a blind panic.

__

* * *

_  
_

Quote from "Sea of Portugal", by Fernando Pessoa, translated by me. (return) 


__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: There is a lot I don’t know about humanity, and whenever I learn something new I immediately wish I hadn’t


	17. Human Power

For a truly horrifying moment, Vergil thought Vittorino dead, too— but he reacted eventually, sluggishly at first, then with a sudden gasp.

"Who's there?" he said, staring wide-eyed in Vergil's general direction. 

It was impossible to think of this room as dark, not after knowing _real darkness_ in Isobella's cell, but it was... probably dark for a human, yes. Vergil stopped rocking Vittorino's torso with his closed fists, stepped back, searched for something that might produce light. Saw Yamato in his hand, still bared, and remembered that he could produce his own light.

The sudden actinic glare of a bedside lamp blinded him and derailed his thoughts.

"Vergil?" Vittorino asked, sitting up and casting a blessed shadow in front of the lamp. "Vergil, it's— it's three in the morning— did you— are you okay? Did you find her?"

Vergil shook his head, offered his closed hand, the hand without Yamato. Wiggled it a bit when Vittorino looked clueless. Dropped the tooth on Vittorino's offered palm.

"I'm sorry," he said, or had he? He couldn't tell if the voice was inside or outside his own head, it just didn't sound loud enough. "I'm sorry," he tried again, and one more time: "I'm sorry—"

"Is this her tooth?" asked Vittorino, and Vergil nodded, the room swaying around him. The air was too thin. Too unreal. It smelled of antiseptic and bug-repellent.

In a sudden burst of energy, Vittorino pushed his covers aside and rose to his feet. He was wearing a camisole, and Vergil heard himself giggle— how strange, when he wasn't even all that amused. It wasn't really funny, it wasn't that funny at all, but he couldn't stop giggling— 

" _Excellent,_ " Vittorino said, his voice harsh and sinister.

"No!" Vergil called out, his giggling fit gone as suddenly as it came. "It's not, it's horrible, it's _horrible_ —"

"But she's _there_ ," Vittorino snarled, tooth clutched in his fist and a glint in his eye. 

"She's _dying_ ," Vergil gasped, there was too little air, too little, "she's dying, she's dead— she's _dead!!_ "

He waved Yamato's hilt at Vittorino's hand, at the tooth, tried to will his meaning into his jumbled words. 

"Is she dying, or is she dead?"

Did— did this fool really think there was a difference, at that point?

"She was—" he waved at the tooth again, and, pathetically, felt like crying. "I was just— I just wanted—" his voice turned into a whine— "to give her a, a little kiss, and—"

"She was alive, then," Vittorino said, as if he couldn't _understand_ , and started pulling pants on, like there was a _point_ — 

" _She was falling apart!_ " Vergil managed to spit out, finally, a coherent sentence. "She is _dying_ , Vittorino, it's no use, it's too late— you don't want to see it, what she looks like, it's too horrifying. Isobella wouldn't want you to—"

Vittorino tossed his ridiculous camisole aside, plunged his arms into a wrinkly shirt lifted straight from the floor. "Was she breathing?" He asked, calm, too calm.

"Yes," Vergil said, despite himself. It was the strongest, most striking memory he had of the accursed place, and he couldn't lie about it. 

"Then she's alive," he concluded, buttoning his shirt, swiping some small vial from his bedside table and dropping the tooth inside. "It's my turn now. I'm going."

"You— you did not see what I saw," Vergil insisted, even though he could tell it would be useless. This was Isobella's brother. Isobella would absolutely go look at things too awful to see. 

But the look Vittorino shot him was not gleeful, or even challenging. It was simply grim.

"I did six months of residency at an underfunded public hospital in Capulet," he said, eyes boring straight into Vergil's. "Two entire floors damaged in a fire decades ago were still unusable by the time I left. The basement was always moist and covered in slimy puddles. There were never enough beds, or equipment, or medicine, or professionals."

He shuffled his bulky coat on, opened a physician's bag, evaluated its contents, closed it with a snap.

"I worked night shifts in the emergency room," he continued. "If you have not seen necrotic limbs or rapid-onset lymphoma or a ten year old child convulsing on the floor while worms crawled out of her ears and eyes and nostrils, then _you have not seen what I have seen_. Now," he picked his bag, turned to Vergil, "can you take me to my sister, or will I have to find my own way?"

"I will take you," Vergil said, numbly. Vittorino had said many things, and Vergil had neither seen nor, in fact, believed half of them ( _worms_ through the _eyes—_ ).

"How long will it take?" Vittorino asked, flicking a wrist out of his absurd sleeve to glance at a wristwatch. "The nuns rise at five, and it's almost four."

How long...?

Vergil looked at Yamato, still carelessly unsheathed, held tight in his hand. 

"It... _won't_ ," he said, filled with sudden wonder— recalling his panic, kicking and stumbling over books, half-convinced he'd gone actually blind before he found his focus... 

"What now?" Vittorino asked in an annoyed huff, but Vergil shook his head, raised Yamato.

"You misunderstand," he said, calmer, finding his confidence. "I _can_ take you there, and it will take no time at all; Yamato showed me the way." He smiled. "When I needed to be here, she brought me here— she cut a path for me, from the Oracularium to your living room... without touching that which lay between."

Vittorino stared, blankly at first, and then— open-mouthed, amazed.

"Yes... _yes!_ " He cried, clutched his bag with both hands. " _Perfect!!_ Oh, truly, the Savior brought you to us—"

_The Savior brought you to me, Isobella whispered into his ear—_

"This changes everything," Vittorino said, pacing around his room, electric, keyring jangling in his hand. "This— I could— weight is no longer an issue, bulk is no longer an issue. I can—" he stopped, turned back to Vergil. "How many trips could you make, in one night?"

"Many," Vergil said, unhesitatingly.

Vittorino shot him a disbelieving stare.

"Truly, it was as nothing," Vergil told him, sheathing Yamato at last. "So much so, I took no notice of my feat until just now. Isobella's state did me much greater harm."

"Hm," Vittorino did not seem convinced, but shrugged at last. "I'll be keeping an eye on you, then," he said, rather boldly in Vergil's opinion. "Let's not put this off; if I need anything else, we can theoretically come and go at will."

Vergil nodded, and raised Yamato— in her sheathe at first, with his respects and a quick prayer of thanks— unsheathed her in an arc, and sent his mind back to the still air, the horrid stench, the bleak darkness, the heavy silence within which Isobella, somehow, against all odds, still breathed.

He slashed the air, grasped Vittorino by the torso, and stepped through.

###

Vergil set Vittorino on his feet, who immediately crumpled to the floor in a whistling, wheezing, violent coughing fit.

...this was not an auspicious entrance.

He summoned a blade, looked around himself. Nothing had changed in the least. Isobella lay on the cot exactly as he had left her; the linen sheet over her body lay slightly disturbed where he had sat. She _still_ breathed. She certainly breathed better than her brother did.

Vittorino dug into his coat, pulled out something that Vergil first took for a piece of plumbing— which he put in his mouth and pumped several times, breathing deeply. An inhaler, Vergil figured. 

It took several minutes of Vittorino breathing tentatively, slowly, sucking more from his inhaler every now and then, before he could talk. 

"...we can't take Isobella back like this," he said, hoarsely, still sitting in a heap. "In her state—"

He hurriedly returned the inhaler to his mouth, wheezing its contents. Vergil studied Isobella, in the meantime; he could not recall her suffering from any respiratory difficulties, and even now, her breath remained steady and, dare he say it, strong.

"It's not— not just my asthma," Vittorino clarified, as he finally stumbled to his feet. "I don't know what we just—" he coughed "—passed through, but— it—" another cough "—I thought... something... crushing me—"

He raised an unsteady fist, which he feebly clenched, a poor demonstration. 

Vergil shook his head. "I felt nothing," he said, and Vittorino made a disgusted face, flapped his hand in an unclear but frustrated gesture. 

Then he fumbled his bag, pushed it unceremoniously against Vergil's torso, using him as leverage as he opened the valise with shaky hands. Vergil took the hint and held it steady as Vittorino dug out jars and ampules and little plastic sachets and a pair of bottles, one of which he drank deeply from. 

By the time he sat on Isobella's cot, he looked significantly improved.

"That," he sighed, shakily, "was _deeply_ unpleasant. I'll have to look into palliatives before we come back. _Oof_."

"Or you could _not_ come back," Vergil pointed out.

"Then grab _one_ thing off that bag and tell me what it's for," Vittorino retaliated, already sorting through his medical knickknacks.

"Everything in this bag," Vergil said imperiously, "is for looking after Isobella."

"Nice try."

Vittorino pulled several things off his coat's inside pockets, then took it off and casually tossed it down against the crack under the door. Yellow light burst into the room; he held a flashlight towards Vergil, handle first, even as he tugged his bag back. 

"Need proper light for an examination," he said, absently, as he ripped a few sealed packets open, revealing gloves and a mask and some sort of smock. "Also you should conserve your magic."

Vergil had no such need, but he chose not to argue. Isobella looked even worse under non-magical light, somehow; under blue, she was eerie, unreal, like the remnants of some underwater tomb, but under gold she was... mundane, alive and starving and thin and pale and _broken_ , crisscrossed with veins and sourceless bruises in too many colors that weren't a proper healthy pink, or even a grisly but understandable purple.

He expected Vittorino to do a double-take, to rear back, to _react_. Instead Vittorino tugged his gloves over the hem of his sleeves and made a face, hummed thoughtfully under his breath, then pulled her linen blanket back. 

It was worse. It was _worse_.

"Keep the light steady," Vittorino said, unfathomably calm, tugging his mask up as he leaned in.

He pressed a thumb against her mottled sternum, watched its white imprint slowly fade into an ugly bruise; his uncaring eyes brushed right past her shrunken and veiny breasts and focused on her swollen, tumescent belly, poking and prodding and tapping. He then pressed one of her nails, pulled one of her eyelids up, shone a smaller, focused light onto her sclera. 

"Stop shaking the light," he complained, still intent on his sister's dried, matte-textured eyes.

"Vittorino," Vergil wheezed, feeling as if the smell in the cell had grown exponentially worse.

"I didn't take you for such a weenie," Vittorino teased, mildly, leaning back from his scrutiny. He relaxed, then, shoulders drooping as he tugged his mask down. "Well, it's about as I expected. I'll need bloodwork to be sure but this looks to be fairly standard for the diet in Saint Frederica's notes—"

Vergil stared at Isobella's exposed body, both shrunken and swollen, pale and bruised, then back at Vittorino— who was also staring at him, a rueful, sympathetic smile in his face.

"Vergil," he said, a corner of his lips tugging up, "she is going to be _fine_."

Vergil looked at her again. Her chest rose, then fell. Her protruding ribs threw sharp shadows under the light, like stripes on a wild animal. The gap from her recently lost tooth no longer glistened.

"I mean," Vittorino continued, softly, "it's going to take years, of course, and her immune system might take a hit from the experience, but this?" He waved a hand over her body. "It doesn't look like it, but she's _whole_. She's dehydrated, yes, _very_ , and this—" he indicated her gaping mouth— "is ascorbate deficiency, popularly known as _scurvy_ , and this here—" he pointed at the disturbing mottled bruising down her chest— "is... actually, I'm not going to get into all her symptoms but this is a perfectly straightforward chronic starvation case and we can _handle_ it, right _here_."

Vergil stared at him. And then he stared at Isobella.

 _But she's dying_ , he wanted to say. He raised his hand halfway, fought the impulse to point at her, her deformed body, her sunken face. Isobella was _dying_. You couldn't just— you couldn't possibly— put _that_ back together, as if she were a cracked cup—

"Remember that kid I mentioned, with the worms?" Vittorino asked, his mask back in place, leaning over Isobella with a bottle in hand. "She lived. It was a pretty ugly infestation, but she reacted to the medication right away, and was improving even before she was moved out of emergency care. Her mom was illiterate, but she _cared_ , she paid so much attention to our instructions. Her girl swore to study hard so she could read for mommy. I saw them again during a vaccination campaign, and they were fine."

He was administering the contents of the bottle with an eyedropper, drop by drop, inside Isobella's mouth. When the eyedropper was emptied, he closed the bottle and set it aside.

"Lymphoma guy, too. He showed up with the entire top of his head turned into a pus-filled crater, said it went from a sore the size of a pinky nail to _that_ in less than a week. I didn't believe him but my professor did. I saw him again on a slide presentation in class." He checked the hour on his watch, then went back to looking at Isobella. " _The importance of inspiring confidence in your patients_ , or something like that. The guy thought he was done for and wasn't even going to bother, but three months of chemo and his head was healed. Six months later and his hair was back, a little funky because of the scars, but— and he'll be doing regular check-ups for years to come, yes, but _he was fine_ , and Isobella will be fine and— we are _resilient_ , Vergil." 

Vittorino sighed, then, leaned back, looked at the ancient wooden roof barely illuminated by the light in Vergil's hand.

"I'm not sure how I can inspire any confidence in you, when you deal in magic, you kill demons, your sword cuts through space itself. But—" he cocked his head. "Well, I guess that makes sense. Demons can brutalize us so easily, and you face them constantly. It's impossible not to feel fragile when any single strike could mean death." 

_You_ are fragile, not _me_ , Vergil thought mulishly, but held his tongue. Vittorino spoke truth; humans were fragile and breakable, and he had no confidence in Vittorino.

But Isobella still breathed, and Vergil felt himself teetering at the edge of a terrible, sanity-shattering epiphany. 

"But in truth, our bodies are... _over-engineered_ , is what my professor used to say," Vittorino continued, oblivious to Vergil's looping thoughts. "We have so many systems and subsystems and replacement systems. We can survive without limbs, without organs, with only part of a single lung, and— it's not a _comfortable_ life, but we live. We can survive—" his hand floated over Isobella in a grim display— "on a single daily pot of unsalted gruel, for years, just waiting for proper nourishment to come to us, and once we have it we _will_ recover. And I have it, and we are here to give it to her, and she _will_ recover, Vergil."

For the first time since his arrival, Vittorino's face showed proper, familial tenderness; he stared at Isobella, sadly, brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead with a careful, gloved finger. The lock remained on his finger as he drew his hand back, and Vergil felt simultaneously relieved and vindicated— his kiss _hadn't_ been ungentle, and she _really_ was falling apart— but Vittorino seemed neither surprised nor dismayed. 

"Humans can walk off all sorts of horror, demonic or otherwise," he said, brushing the lock of hair from his glove. "Our bodies are made to live and to keep on living, at all costs, despite ourselves. We lived before the Savior joined our cause, and we still live, in his absence; it's not magic, but it is our own very human power, you know." 

"Power, huh," Vergil echoed, a small, scoffing laugh escaping his throat, and then the strangest thing happened. 

He felt cold, a shudder crawling from the bottom of his spine to the base of his skull— and then he felt warm, warm and clammy and weary; and he had never in his life been sick, but knew at once, somehow, that this was exactly what it felt like for a fever to break. 

Then he tasted grief on the back of his tongue, sour, tight, and tears slipped from his eyes.

"Father..." he whispered, without knowing why. "Is this...?"

The cell gleamed a gentle gold, the shadows stretching and wavering in a strange and sudden dance, and he swayed to the cot, knelt down by her— the ancient queen still breathing within her tomb, despite herself, despite her family, despite the Order, despite his callousness, despite every last law and mandate on either the Surface or the Underworld— and held one of her hands (dry, thin, bony, but still warm) in both his own. 

At some point, the flashlight had stopped being in his hand, and started being in Vittorino's instead. He gave it no further consideration. 

"Isobella," he whispered, instead. 

Her power, a human's power. To breathe, and to keep on breathing, even when death itself would be a mercy. To sleep, lying in the ashes of her own ruin, patiently waiting for a spark to ignite her life again, to raise her back as a phoenix resplendent. 

She morphed before his eyes, like a trick drawing. The ghastly rictus, the hideous jutting bones, the stretched skin, the mottling, the bruises— scaffolding, all of it, the exposed foundations of a magnificent edifice, neglected and looted and still majestic; and with that new insight he suddenly perceived the woman she still was, and the woman she would _once again be_.

She wasn't... she wasn't broken. She was still beautiful. She was— 

"Stop crying on her mattress, you dramatic loon!" Vittorino nudged him out of his fugue, his voice suffused with laughter. "The nuns will notice. She's too dehydrated to wet the bed."

"What a fucking _asshole_ ," Vergil heard himself sob, then laugh, right along with Vittorino. Who was he even talking to, Isobella? Oh, he couldn't— he couldn't wait, suddenly, for the day when she could talk back. 

They could trash-talk Vittorino together. That sounded wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vitto: she's not dying, she just needs some care  
> Vergil: (doing the “but steel is heavier than feathers” face)


	18. Being Daft

Vittorino forced him into gloves and a mask, spoke at length about minerals and proteins and an entire alphabet of vitamins. The bottle held rehydrating solution— water boiled and filtered, sugar and salt in specific measures— to administer at the rate of a full eyedropper every five minutes. This became Vergil's new duty, as Vittorino dug out a notepad and began wielding instruments and taking measures and writing notes, all while babbling away about unfathomable medical mysteries.

"Ideally, we'd be administering proper saline solution through an intravenous drip-feed," he went on, producing a number of unreadable scrawls under the flashlight, precariously balanced on his bag. "But that would be a little harder to hide from the nuns. I might reconsider, though—" he pointed at Yamato with his pen; "if we can confirm the Sisters' rotation and timing, we could set up a rack during the evening and stash it back away for the day. It should speed up her treatment considerably— her stomach's shrunken and I wouldn't want to risk it with supplements when so many of them are acidic, but the bloodstream is a different matter."

"I see," Vergil lied, dripping water onto Isobella's exposed gums and cracked lips, aiming under her swollen tongue, mindful not to hit her throat directly. She reacted minimally to his ministrations. Her neck undulated grotesquely as she barely swallowed. He was floating somewhere beyond both joy and horror.

"I was going to take some blood samples, too," he said, pausing over his scrawls, "but... I wonder if the trip through your pathway has an actual physiological effect, or if it's just—" he waved his pen randomly— "a bad reaction to magic, like, aetherical rather than physical. So I'll first take a sample of my own and compare with my last blood test—"

Vergil tuned him out. Something was tugging at his senses, like an unhurried but persistent warning.

"What's the time?" he asked, sharply.

"Not five minutes yet," Vittorino said, casually, after barely a glance at his wristwatch.

"The _hour_ ," Vergil insisted, stoppering his bottle with sudden nervous energy.

Vittorino blinked at his wrist again, laid his pen down. Pressed a pair of buttons— the accursed thing beeped, _loudly_ , of all the times for a Fortunan to have a bulky digital watch— and took a sharp breath.

"Five-twenty," he whispered, and flipped his notepad closed with a hissed curse.

Vergil held his breath, focused his _everything_ into his ears— he hadn't had to depend on his human senses for way too long, he got careless— there were voices so distant he may as well be imagining them, but— 

He yanked off his rubber glove, laid his palm flat to the ground. The stone carried slightly better. 

"Footsteps," he mumbled to Vittorino.

"How many?" Vittorino hissed, shuffling his myriad implements back into his bag.

"I don't fucking know!" Vergil lost his patience, turned around to help pick up after Vittorino— what the hell had possessed him to scatter his tools so far apart, why was this weird thermometer under the bed—

Someone sneezed, _loudly_ , on the corridor outside, followed by indistinct complaining. Vergil turned the flashlight off, summoned a floating blade. A door creaked to the left of their cell.

"Can't you make us invisible, or something?" Vittorino hissed, struggling with the latch on his bag, his mask hanging from one ear.

"Of course I can't, you—"

"Sorry, sorry! I just thought— if we could watch—"

"Don't be _daft_ ," Vergil grumbled, balling up Vittorino's coat and pushing it into his overloaded arms, then grasping Yamato, already reaching for the seam in the fabric of— 

His awareness of the surrounding space expanded, across the stone walls, the wooden door, the ceiling, and in a mad burst of inspiration he grasped Vittorino with his free arm and stabbed the world— 

—then stumbled out into the ancient rafters, hitting his forehead on a plank with a muffled curse before dropping to the floor and dragging Vittorino none-too-gently along with him.

"We should be able to—" he was in the middle of saying, when Vittorino seized violently in his arm.

Shit. _Shit_. He'd forgotten about this, and Isobella's door was already being noisily unlocked—

He bit into his thumb, pushed it into Vittorino's mouth, and immediately caught on to how stupid the thing was that he had just done.

Fuck. The whole absurd and emotionally-charged situation had taken him right back to his childhood, to using his wits more often than his blade, hiding and scurrying and evading pursuit. Having found how intensely his blood drew demonic attention, he would carry it in small vials to break or spill as needed, and absent the vials he would cut and quickly heal himself with a surge of magic, laying down blood spatters to mislead devil noses. 

Shoving an arm into a demon's mouth to keep it from attracting others had been one more move in his desperate repertoire, one which he'd immediately fallen back on to silence a goddamn asthma attack. 

And weirdly it seemed to have worked.

Vittorino had stopped coughing almost before he started, possibly stunned out of his fit, and stared wide-eyed as Vergil drew his spit-covered and already healed thumb back. The look Vittorino shot him right then was, for lack of a proper descriptor, freaked out.

Vergil made a halting gesture, half-shrug half-sinking into the boards with a dash of wide eyes, and then pointed vaguely down.

He'd brought them here because Vittorino wanted to watch, and the ancient, thick wooden planks had enough space between them to just about see the group of aged nuns as they bumbled through the heavy door.

One of them hung a battery lamp onto a hook they had failed to notice; the other two bickered.

"And those _stairs_ , too, none of us is of an age to be climbing them, I _say_ ," one of them complained. "You least of all, what are you, eighty? 'Tis a crime to force you to—"

"I am _sixty_ ," roared the second nun, even though she very much looked eighty. "But I'm pretty sick of those stairs, too. Do you ever think that the ones in the old building are better? It's just a more considerate building, I think."

"Oh, for sure," the first nun said. They were shuffling around the cot. "It was built in loftier times. Whatever happened to the old tower, it certainly deprived us of—"

The nun at the foot of the cot yanked the cover off Isobella in a practiced, economical flick of the wrist, and Vergil went momentarily deaf with indignation. But the trio remained oblivious to his fury, preparing as they were for some sort of maneuver.

"I wish some of the mid-day sisters would try this _drudgery_ on for size," said the oldest nun, and then the conversation paused as they— carefully, at least— rolled Isobella onto her side. Isobella went easily, stiff as a plank. 

"Come off it, girls," said the third nun, who'd had the lamp, sternly. "They're doing chores."

"They're _younger_ than us," the other one whined.

"Which is why they're doing _actual_ chores," said the stern nun. "Don't compare this with toilet scrubbing or floor washing."

The stern nun tugged off a sort of padded cloth, barely stained, that had rested under Isobella's bottom, and placed a fresh one upon it. Her younger companion leaned in, wiping Isobella with at least some semblance of thoroughness, although Vergil was hardly an expert on cleaning after others.

"I don't remember ever seeing the Mother in the toilet-scrubbing roster," the old nun grumbled.

"That's because she manages the greenhouse," said the first nun.

"Oh, I'd rather be raising tomatoes than cleaning bums," the old one said, with a heartfelt sigh.

"I don't see you cleaning any bums!" the first nun, who had just finished cleaning up Isobella's nethers, complained. 

"I'm being figurative!" the old nun clarified, raising her hands in a pacifying gesture. "I'm just saying _this_ is work for, well, novices. Young sisters, actually young and strong, you know? Fresh meat, not a bunch of old biddies like us. We should introduce them early—"

The stern sister was administering something to Isobella's eyes— something liquid, at least— but paused to shoot her companion an absolutely thunderous look.

" _Fresh meat?_ Like Sister Mercy?"

The other two backed away from her, clutching their hearts in identical gestures. 

"Sister Brava!" one of them exclaimed, scandalized.

"How unkind!" said the old one, her voice wavering, momentarily sounding very much like she was eighty. "You know she still weighs heavily upon all our minds."

"And _yet_ ," Sister Brava indicated the entire room with her eyedropper, her eyes glinting like a tigress on the prowl, "you remain flippant around the cause of her death."

"Please!" the young Sister wrung her hands. "It was an accident!"

"Yes, and Sister Flora is actually sixty," Sister Brava said, dryly, turning her attention back to Isobella, and Old Sister Flora drew herself up enough to almost straighten her curved back.

"That was uncalled for!" she said. "This tower always turns you into such a hag. Maybe I should tell Mother Clemency to—"

"You know what you should tell her?" Sister Brava slapped her vial closed. "That the Oracles should be volunteer only. There, I said it."

"But—"

"You can tell her that I said as much."

"No one would want to _volunteer_ for this!" the young Sister cried. 

Sister Flora's shoulders tensed, and Sister Brava started to giggle, a high, mad little sound.

"You don't _say_!" she laughed, her grin too wide and too full of teeth. "You really, really don't _say_."

"We _need_ the Oracles!" Young Sister warbled, still wringing her hands. "To receive the Savior's—"

" _At what cost?_ " Sister Brava hissed, standing from the cot as if about to pounce. "The Savior has nothing to tell these women; to speak to them would be to justify this, this _atrocity_. And Sister Mercy saw this crime for what it was, she _jumped_ because she understood its gravity. Fresh meat!!" She threw her hands up. "We stand upon a tower of _sin_ , and we will pay for it in time!"

"Then why are you even here?" Sister Flora shouted back at her, irritated; the younger crone was sobbing softly.

Sister Brava pointed at Isobella. "Does she have any bedsores?" Sister Flora followed the finger to stare at Isobella's exposed body, and Sister Brava's hand immediately turned into a fist. " _You had to LOOK!_ " she roared, driving the sisters to take another step back. " _Some_ body has to take care of these girls, and neither of you are fit to do it!" She cried, then balled both hands into fists, face hardening. "The Savior take mercy upon my soul, but I am already a party to this horror. I will do what I can, and it will not be enough, and I will pay for it when my time comes. As for you—" she pushed a jar into Sister Flora's hands— "at least do _something_. All you've done today is roll the girls and then complain."

The other two turned back to Isobella's prone form, chastened, while Sister Brava puttered around the wheeled bag they'd brought along. Her hands shook.

A small scratching sound came from Vergil's elbow, snapping him away from the scene below; Vittorino was back at his pad, scribbling away— and then he flipped to the last page in the pad, and wrote, in tall letters and with a trio of underlines: _SISTER BRAVA_.

The nuns finally gathered their implements, then walked out in a subdued line. But the younger one paused at the door, turned back to glance around the room with a thoughtful frown, and smacked her tongue— her tongue and her lips, as if tasting something in the air— before stepping out, shaking her head to herself.

The door closed. The lock clanged and clattered. The nuns shuffled off away to the next cell, their muffled sounds fading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Sorry, sorry! I just thought— if we could watch—”  
> “Don’t be _daft_ ,” Vergil grumbled. “That’s _my_ job.”


	19. Coffee Milk

Vergil glanced at Vittorino, who also glanced at him.

"This is heartening," Vittorino mumbled to him.

"That last woman," Vergil hissed back, less heartened. "She is sensitive. She felt the remnants of my magic."

"Does she _know_ it?" Vittorino asked. "Is she aware that it's magic, or just that it's something different, like the taste of a storm?"

"How should I know?" Vergil retorted in annoyance.

"Exactly," said Vittorino, smugly. "You don't. You can worry about it later. Right now, we should focus on all the _good_ things we've learned." He hesitated. "We should probably go back down."

"What if they come back in?"

"Why would they? They hate being here, and they've been at this routine for years. It would be redundant."

"What if they hear _you?_ " Vergil pointed out, and Vittorino hesitated again.

"I— I don't think they will," he said. "But it's one more thing I'd like to ascertain. Do your thing."

Vergil sneered at being instructed by some wheezy specimen, but _did his thing_ , as it had been so succinctly put. It was awkward, under the ancient and cramped beams, but he managed a hole sizable enough to step out of with a semblance of dignity.

Vittorino forewent dignity entirely, stumbling ahead out of his arm as soon as they crossed the threshold. He panted, swayed, put a hand to his forehead, then took a deep breath. Then another, long, slow one. Straightened his back, relaxed his shoulders, breathed long and deliberately.

That was about when Vergil got it.

"You're not whistling," he whispered in wonder, and Vittorino choked, coughed, covered his mouth with both hands and slowly crumpled to the floor.

Vergil summoned a blade and watched haughtily as he writhed, moving nary a muscle to help, since the bastard was just _laughing_. Then he went about putting Vittorino's effects down, blocking the door against their lights, digging up the bottle and eyedropper and new gloves. "Have you had quite enough?" he asked, eventually, since the nuns had already shuffled past the door on their way back and Vittorino was still curled up face-down.

"No— I mean yes," Vittorino mumbled, face still mostly buried in his arms. "I mean— I'm not laughing anymore, I'm just. Freaking."

"I can tell," Vergil said, dryly, only too willing to forget his own previous little fits. 

"Did you know?" Vittorino asked, rising to his knees, slowly. "That your blood would heal me."

"No," Vergil answered immediately. "And— I doubt it truly has. The blood of Sparda is suffused with raw power, but no specific properties." He sat by Isobella, still turned on her side upon her cot. "It might have given you extra energy, but no more."

"Energy, huh," Vittorino mumbled to himself, and then— "Leave her be," he said, when Vergil laid a hand upon Isobella's shoulder; he'd been about to turn her face-up. "That's to prevent bedsores," Vittorino explained, finally rising to his feet. "Too much pressure on the same spot can cause the skin to break down. You can drip-feed her on her side, just scoot a bit so I can check her back for the sores she _already_ has."

Vergil didn't argue, focused as he was on dripping solution onto the inside of Isobella's cheek. She did have a few sores, open inflamed patches of raw skin which he tried not to pay too much attention to. They'd been slathered with pungent paste, which Vittorino carefully wiped off before applying his own modern versions: clear liquids daubed with cotton, thick pomades spread with a small plastic spatula. 

Eventually he sat back, tugged her sheet into place, tugged off his fourth pair of gloves.

They shared a moment of mutual awkwardness. 

"What if—" Vergil began.

"Yes," Vittorino said, "I've been thinking the same."

But having said that, he still stopped Vergil's thumb on its way to his teeth.

"Not just yet," he said, in response to Vergil's questioning look. "Let's watch how my body reacts to— what you already gave me. Whether there are... adverse effects or the like." He pressed his lips together into a bloodless line, eyes traveling to Isobella's protruding shoulders. "In the meantime— you have a job, and I have classes."

Vergil clenched his teeth, his shoulders drawing back with offense. "You can't be saying—" 

"I _can_ be saying that Isobella is doing very well, that we've done more for her than I hoped for even a week ago, and—" he hesitated— "that you have a _son_ who depends on—"

He had a _problem_ he had avoided thinking about for an entire _night_ but which slapped back onto him like an absurd wave the second Vittorino spoke the word ss _SSSS_ ( _they'll find him don't THINK it you FOOL_ )—

And yet... how sweet, how relieving it was, to be suffused with simple warm tenderness after a night of convoluted emotions! He floated, despite himself, for but a second— yet the seizing claws that would grasp him did not, cradling him instead until he found his footing. He still felt— _Nero—_ in the distance, a beacon, a light, a treasure he yearned to reach and to _claim_ before the undeserving filth could _dare_ to—

Vergil found, just then, that the claws weren't Nero's after all. And he felt foolish for ever assuming as much, because Nero was warm and small and delicate and had no jagged edges.

 _He_ clawed at himself, craven, wretched, amputated of the most sublime creation of his flesh—

Vittorino nudged him out of his trance.

"...who depends on you keeping a low profile, is what I was about to say," he spoke from the shadows above. "This is a magic thing, isn't it."

Vergil tried to speak, gave up before he started. The summoned sword was gone, the flashlight was on the floor, and so was he. His fingers were digging into his arms— with blunt nails; the amount of magic even a partial transformation took would have overridden his will and solved all his, no, shit, it would have _caused_ problems—

He dug his nails into his arms again, focusing on their pressure over the instinctive swell of unwarranted, tender yearning, then noticed he was non-metaphorically clawing at himself.

"I hate this," he muttered, and then said "Oh," when he spotted the solution bottle and its spilled contents.

Vittorino nudged him again— with a foot— as he reached under the bed for it. 

"It's homemade and easy to make, so don't worry about it," he said, sympathetic despite smudging Vergil's pants with his shoe. "It's near to six, let's go get some coffee and think about our findings, set up a timetable."

He hated that the wheezy human was so collected when he was not.

###

Once back in Vittorino's apartment, he was invited to a very sparse kitchen, and half-collapsed at a table crammed against the wall.

"Okay, thing the first," Vittorino said, one finger raised as he set a kettle on an electric stove with his other hand. "Not all the nuns in the Candelary are aware of what goes on in the Oracularium."

"Big whoop," Vergil mumbled. He was still tense and unhappy from his... Nero Episode, and the realization that he sounded just like Dante only made him crabbier.

"Big whoop indeed, because it means they don't all agree with it." Vittorino paced the kitchen, digging out breakfast implements and setting them on the rickety table. "You heard them; a sister literally killed herself after being brought in on the secret. If we ever need help, we have dozens of potential allies. Which brings me to—" he raised a second finger— "thing the second: Sister Brava. A possible point of contact if we need one."

" _Will_ we need one?" Vergil asked, pointedly.

"We _might_ ," Vittorino said. "Hopefully we won't, but we may as well line up our options. Which brings us to thing the third: your blood."

He raised a third finger, then fit a cloth filter to a strange little wire contraption, under which he set a coffee pot.

"I am breathing better than I ever have, and I feel rested despite being short on sleep. This is from the little blood you smeared against my teeth before— and correct me if I happen to be wildly wrong— your finger healed inside my mouth. Did it, by the way?"

His tone was light and casual, but he turned an intense questioning look to Vergil nevertheless, coffee jar in hand. 

"It did," Vergil confirmed.

"You can regenerate small wounds instantly, then," Vittorino said.

"Big ones, as well," Vergil told him, and then sighed. "I... cannot be classified as a normal human, Vittorino."

"I suppose not," Vittorino conceded, mildly, as he poured hot water on the cloth filter. The kitchen was filled with the scent of coffee, momentarily stronger than the omnipresent insecticide. "In which case, we must investigate _how_ compatible you are with a normal human, which I'm guessing is _very_ , for— self-evident reasons," he carefully sidestepped that pitfall, to Vergil's relief. "And also, how big an effect a particular amount of blood can be expected to have, as well as _which_ part of it carries the blessing."

Vergil didn't know how to feel about his powers being called a _blessing_ in a Fortunan context, but was spared giving an opinion as Vittorino finished laying the breakfast table. 

Coffee, milk, sugar, day-old baguettes sliced and toasted on a frying pan, cold butter and white cheese— a traditional working-class breakfast for the island, although a guest normally rated a quick trip to the bakery. Not that he held it against Vittorino; they were both tired, if emotionally rather than physically, and they had a lot to both talk and think about.

Vittorino did wait for him to serve himself first, as custom demanded, and accordingly Vergil did not waste his time with ceremony.

"So," Vittorino continued, as Vergil poured enough coffee in his cup to turn his milk a pale beige, "blood separates in three components: the plasma, the buffy coat, and the erythrocytes, each of which has a different function and holds important— uh, stuff. For fuck's sake, I'm not even in class. Sorry." He poured his coffee to the brim, gesturing awkwardly, while Vergil loaded his cup with sugar. "Suffice to say, your blessing might be contained in one component, or might be distributed in all three, and if we figure that out, we can focus on the component we know to be effective, or even pick and choose which would most benefit Bella's needs." He sipped his coffee without bothering with sugar. "So if you don't mind, I'd like to draw some of your blood to examine in the college lab."

"What if it attracts devils?" Vergil asked, futilely scraping at the butter brick. 

He resorted to magically heating the knife as Vittorino shrugged. "The lab will be full of blood samples," he said, arranging his share of bread while waiting for Vergil to be done with the butter. "Everyone will assume they went for the samples in general and not one in specific. I'm surprised they don't show up constantly. Oh, this is nice," he said, as Vergil passed him the heated knife. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Vergil mumbled uncertainly. "But you might be attacked on your way if you have it on you."

"I might be regardless," Vittorino said, shrugging with great serenity. "This _is_ Fortuna."

They ate in silence for a few companionable minutes, before Vittorino spoke again.

"Moving on," he said, pointing the knife emphatically at Vergil. "Thing the fourth: Nero."

Vergil chewed slowly, took his time savoring the food. The bread was good, even old and reheated, and the butter was quality local fare, hardened as it was by cold storage. Also, he didn't want to talk and risk another Nero Episode, and was willing to put it off indefinitely by means of polite breakfast consumption. 

"Many people make a habit of visiting the orphanages on a regular basis, even if they can't or won't adopt," Vittorino said. "But it's usually for religious reasons. And those visits are tightly scheduled, and short, and also there's a lot of proselytizing. I wanted to avoid all of those factors, so I volunteered as a student doctor to do weekly health check-ups for free. That's how I keep tabs on Nero."

Vergil nodded, with some relief. That was... good, yes, good to know, good to be told about, and more importantly it wasn't triggering any magical instincts. He sipped his milky coffee, tried to indicate with his chin that Vittorino should go on.

"I've got a pretty in-depth file on his health, if you ever want to peruse it," Vittorino continued, idly picking the crust off his bread, "but it has nothing that would differentiate him from a completely normal child. In hindsight, though— there have been a few occasions... no, I'm getting ahead of myself."

He shook his head, sipped more coffee.

"What I'm saying is that I never found any such thing as a 'magical component' in _Nero's_ blood. Now," he said soothingly, as Vergil's back stiffened and his cup slowly lowered, "the thing is, I did not know to _search_. Then there's the factor you mentioned the other night, the thing about being _awake_ and how he's probably _not_. We don't even know if the blessing is detectable in a lab setting—"

Vergil opened his mouth.

"You drew his blood," he said, heedless of the milk he was dribbling on the table.

"Yes, every three months," Vittorino said, too calm, too calm, too calm.

There was a strident screech rattling the bottom of Vergil's skull, and the gloomy kitchen grew sharp, saturated with colors and the smell of coffee and poison. Vittorino watched him intensely, his seat and the table and the breakfast sinking as Vergil rose and rose and rose from his chair, one hand tight around Yamato's scabbard and the other tight around her hilt, pulling and pulling and pulling for a slow metallic eternity— 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vitto: You can't kill me. I show up in chapter 8 which takes place in the future  
> Vergil, snapping his fingers in frustration: you sly bastard


	20. Decrusting

Vergil dropped back onto the chair and pushed Yamato back into her sheath through sheer dogged will.

"Don't," he choked out, his voice thick, his throat unfamiliar.

He. He'd almost triggered. ( _He'd almost solved all of his problems._ )

"Don't use the word," Vittorino asked, "or don't...?"

" _Don't._ "

Vergil flopped against the wall, wrung out. This was stupid and unfair. Vittorino had no way of knowing Nero was _special special special spe_ — (he pressed his temple against the wall until his brain stopped skipping) —and had just tried to ensure his continued wellbeing through whichever crude means he had available. It had to be done, until Vergil could... _could_.

"I can't keep my shit together," he conceded, finally. No pretense, no politesse, no veneer. He felt more adolescent than he had ever been in his teens. "It... I... do what you must, do what's best for Nero, that alone m-matters. Just don't tell me, I'm— weak."

"Yes, that," Vittorino said, slowly, "that's a problem."

"One I have failed to solve my entire pathetic life," Vergil growled.

"What? No, no," Vittorino flapped a hand (it was shivering, Vergil noticed) and took an unsteady sip of his coffee. "Savior, no. Who am I to call you weak? I only just learned to breathe." He laughed a nervous little giggle. "I meant avoiding talk of Nero. We can't just do that, you're h—" he swallowed the dangerous word along with a gulp of coffee, then changed tacks, grimly. "We need to handle your magical meltdowns."

Vergil sighed. "They're just a symptom of my weakness. One of many."

"Incorrect," Vittorino said, grinning, and pointed at Vergil with his cup. "I will bet you anything that it's the opposite. You're too strong. You have _excess_ magic, and it's overwhelming you."

"Where it should _not_ ," Vergil pointed out. "My entire life I have been filled to the brim with magic. It's my natural state, and for it to surge against my control and affect my reasoning so often is..."

Bullshit, he almost said, but didn't.

"Hmm," Vittorino said, thoughtfully. "And do you usually glow when it's surging like that?"

"Glow— _no._ " Vergil stiffened again, rose tensely from the wall. "No, no, it can't be. If I did—" 

"You'd be pelted with rocks wherever you went," completed Vittorino. "Far be it from me to catch aspersions on my fellow countrymen, but they're all xenophobic assholes with an understandable fear of the supernatural. Also, you didn't glow back in Bella's cell— I mean, your eyes did," he vaguely indicated his own, "but it was also pitch black, and you closed them right away. I don't think it's even noticeable in average lighting. It _was_ noticeable just now, though. _Very._ So..."

Vittorino put his elbows on the table.

"What _do_ you feel during these surges? And how was the one just now different from the others?"

"I thought you were harming Nero," Vergil answered, unhesitatingly, then paused. "No, I lie. I _didn't_ think it. I knew what you meant, I'm aware of modern medical practices. The surge just," Vergil gritted his teeth, "rendered me _completely stupid._ "

"Just this one episode? Come now, I'm trying to draw a comparison here," Vittorino pointed emphatically with his decrusted bread. "Be thorough, and don't be embarrassed; this is what I'm studying for, listening to weird symptoms to figure out how to help."

"This is no human malady," Vergil argued.

"But it _is_ a malady, because it's causing you _malaise_." Vittorino counter-argued. "Humor me."

Vergil flopped back against the wall. The sun was rising, his bread was on the floor, and he had coffee milk on his collar. 

What the hell.

"It's like standing in a current," he said, staring at a greasy wall tile as he focused on _not_ reliving the memory. "And... Nero is a glow in the distance. The current leads to him. If I lose my footing, I—" He paused, very firmly refused to follow the thought to its conclusion. "And— it would be so easy. The current is relentless, and I'm losing ground, I _feel_ it, it's all I can do to— stay in place— _fu—_ "

He choked mid-word, unceremoniously dragged into the altered state of mind wherein such te _rms were absolutely inappropriate. It was warm and soft and sweet and Nero was the only star in the sky that mattered—_

He head-butted the wall with what little leverage he had. The snap of cracking ceramic almost pulled him out of the delirium. " _Nnnno_ ," he moaned, his tongue feeling thick and numb in his mouth, clawing his way back to reality, forcing his eyes to take in the shapes of Vittorino's drab kitchen instead of the glow within...

Something cold and slimy touched his arm and he backhanded it into the ceiling, only to belatedly realize it was the butter plate (it got stuck).

Vittorino was still reaching out with pinched fingers, sporting a somewhat contrite expression.

"Hi?" he asked, meekly.

Vergil squeezed his eyes shut, blinked several times, opened and closed his fists. His body still felt floaty. 

"How long," he asked, through lips that still felt sluggish.

"Three seconds? Maybe five," Vittorino said. "I was paying more attention to your facial cues, to be honest." 

"Urgh," Vergil slumped back onto the cracked tile. He wanted to complain, but the fact that he hadn't lost any time was, frankly, praiseworthy. "A waste of time," he groused, anyway.

"Not at all, it was very informative," Vittorino said. "Would you like to hear my conclusions?"

Vergil flapped a hand. "Could I even keep you from talking?"

"You looked happy."

Vergil's jaw closed with a click.

"Positively doped out, in fact," he continued, mercilessly. "Your pupils dilated almost to the edge of your iris, before you cracked my wall. There was a glow but I had to look for it. It felt good, didn't it? Whatever it was."

Vergil lowered his head to the table, coating his hair and forehead with liberally scattered breadcrumbs and lukewarm coffee milk. This was his life, now. 

"It's warm," he confessed to the table, pathetically. "I want to float. I want to fly. He glows. Nero... _glows_. And I could..." he glanced curiously at the hand he had raised, "I could just reach out and— oh, for fuck's sake."

"What?" Vittorino asked, as Vergil raised his head and squinted at the wall he was leaning against. 

He was glaring at the cracked tile with great offense and suspicion.

"It took me _weeks_ to stop— this— ugh." He slapped his hovering hand against the wall with a sad _plop_ , pushed away heavily. "He's this way."

"Who?" Vittorino looked mildly mystified.

"Nero," Vergil said, in a tone that was usually followed by the word _duh_. "His orphanage is this way. This direction." He dropped his forehead onto the cracked tile in much the same way he had dropped it onto the table. "Summon your countrymen, Vittorino, I need pelting with rocks."

"Vergil," Vittorino said, possibly in an attempt at sympathy.

"Rocks, stat," Vergil continued, pushing against the shards. "Apply directly to my skull, repeatedly."

"Vergil, please," Vittorino insisted. "Nobody says _stat_." 

"You're unlicensed."

"I can't believe you watch medical dramas."

Vergil had no defense against those words and didn't bother.

"So you can tell where Nero is? His general position in the island?"

Vergil sighed, deeply, dug his forehead into a pokey shard, stared into nothing. "You know— I—" he reached aimlessly for his point— "There is... one," he raised a finger at Vittorino's general direction and repeated, " _one_ wild upside to Isobella's horrid situation, and it's that thinking about it is the only distraction I have from knowing exactly where in the island Nero is, every moment, every second, and just how— _fast_ —" into the pokey shard, the pokey shard— "I could make it to him. It's minutes, by the way."

"Vergil."

"If I demolish this wall and the next one and hit the balcony I can jump across the street to the opposite roof and—"

"You're doing the eye thing."

"I know," Vergil nodded, swallowed thickly. Nero was— so close— _waiting for him—_

"Keep talking," Vittorino said, quickly, loading Vergil's cup with too much coffee and not nearly enough milk. "You were smacking the wall, you want to break the wall? To get to Nero?"

"No, no, look," Vergil gestured wildly and pointlessly. "You have windows, I don't _have_ to, I'm just very annoyed and generally irritated."

"At the wall?"

"At the _leaning!!_ " Vergil smacked the wall again, not very seriously and not with real anger, because this was very much a Nero Episode and that meant his insides were all softly padded with cotton and flannel and silk paper and the best he could do was slap emphatically as he fussed. "At the stupid— wilting— flower— listing— _into the sun!!_ "

He finished with one last despondent slap.

"And Nero is the sun?"

" _Yes._ " Oh, finally, thank fuck. He got it. _Someone_ got it. Vergil's insides gooshily bloomed into relief and affection towards Vittorino, who was now absolutely trustworthy beyond any shadow of doubt. _He got it._

He sagged against the wall in question, and pretended really hard it was just because it was closest.

"I need to... focus," he grunted, with some effort. "To get my shit together. Inspection at seven."

"It's not even six."

"I can't be listing at seven."

"Do you drink, Vergil?"

"I can't be _drunk_ at seven."

"You already are."

Vergil glanced down suspiciously at his coffee-befouled milk. It was almost _brown_.

"Take it from me, a college student," said Vittorino, with a grin; "You are _well_ beyond tipsy. But you know what you are not?"

"Sane," Vergil said, dryly.

"Slack-jawed, staring into nothing," Vittorino ignored his answer, "Hurting yourself or triggering a panic attack to forcibly snap out of it. We even held a coherent conversation. And you were glowing, but you didn't go under, did you?"

Vergil squinted at Vittorino. "I was stupid. I was _raving_ , Vittorino, it's been less than a minute and I'm already embarrassed about it."

"See? Just like being drunk with actual alcohol. Also, call me Vitto."

"Why?"

"Vittorino is a mouthful."

Vergil squinted harder, and Vittorino smirked.

"Please. I went into your magic hole and you put your thumb in my mouth. I think that rates a little intimacy, don't you?"

"That's probably _lewd_ ," Vergil sneered, "but I refuse to figure out how. Have it your way," and he added, experimentally, "Vitto."

Well, that wasn't too bad.

"Ah," Vittorino sighed, shaking his head. "To be drunk without alcohol. You probably don't even get hungover." 

Vergil thought about the heavy despondency and anxiety that consistently followed his Nero Episodes. "I'd take a headache any day," he mumbled, then caught himself speaking, then decided he was right. "I'd take a spike through the heart," he said, with stronger conviction. 

"I have a better idea," said Vitto. "Develop some tolerance."

"I'm tolerating _plenty_ ," Vergil snapped.

"A tolerance to your _surges_ , specifically," Vitto said, with a less-than-subtle sigh. "You literally get high off— magical... feelings?" He said experimentally. "You enter an euphoric state due to your magical connection to Nero, and it causes— overflow, because... more magic? Sudden magical production?" He clicked his tongue behind his teeth, apparently unsatisfied. "Needs more research. Nevertheless my point stands."

Vergil didn't get it, and put on a thunderous look to pretend he just didn't like it.

"Well, we can workshop it later," Vittorino shrugged, leaning from his chair to fish a gross old notebook from the counter. "We have plenty to plan around already. So— evenings, what time? Officially the Sisters retire at eight, we might want to do an overnight stake-out to make sure they don't do the Oracularium after hours. I visit the orphanage on Saturdays but I'm free on Sundays. What about you?"

Vergil didn't answer. What little words he could string together were interrupted by the butter plate falling from the ceiling, and Vitto's subsequent jump.

"This night," he mumbled to the wall, as Vitto failed to brush spattered butter off his pants, "lasted _weeks_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vitto: Your son is drugs. Luckily the drugs are antidepressants and you need them _bad_  
>  Vergil: Sorry, I can't hear you over the realization that the events of this one night were in fact published over a span of five weeks


	21. Building a routine

For their first official "outing", Vittorino invited Vergil to return at 10pm the very next evening; emboldened by the prospect of actually accomplishing _something_ , Vergil ripped his way into the book-strewn living room at the turn of the hour, innocently unaware of the trap he was walking into. 

Vittorino then invited him to sit and started talking about Nero with no preambles or preparation. 

"I can't," Vergil found himself begging but a few words in, head in his hands. "Stop— I _can't_."

The world was already tilting, and he locked his back firmly against its axis (he was _not_ going to lean like a _sad flower—_ ), awareness flitting back and forth between Vitto's pesticide-saturated home and the... warm, glowing _place_. 

Vittorino merely snapped his fingers around Vergil's head, drawing circles as if trying to piss off a dog. "With me, with me," he said, uncaring and merciless. "I didn't even get to the part where he skinned—"

" _Stop—_ "

"—his knee. You are a weenie, Savior's Kin. Now, I wasn't looking directly at the time, since I was in the middle of vaccinating an even younger kid, but the Sister swore he'd climbed almost six feet up the fig tree—" 

Vergil shot to his feet, still clutching his head, and had he been a stronger man he'd have walked out the door. Instead, he paced amid books like a caged beast.

"I will _not_ be responsible for my actions if you, if you insist on this _torment_ —"

"A weenie and a dramatic loon, to boot. Nero was fine then, he is fine now, and you'll be fine if you sit down. Shouldn't you be proud? Nero was already climbing trees before he was two—"

Vittorino eventually found mercy within his shriveled heart, but only after Vergil's mouth started babbling in inhuman whimpers through no will of his own; he took a blood sample then, as Vergil sat swaying on the couch with the taste of ash in his mouth, and changed topics into some incomprehensible medical jargon until Vergil snapped at him.

This would, unfortunately, set a pattern for their evenings.

Vitto had apparently chosen to step into the role of Vergil's unauthorized physician, and as such he took it upon himself to "treat" Vergil's "hypersensitivity" by means of "exposition therapy". Which meant in practice that he would talk about Nero and Vergil would listen because he was a fool and a weakling, presenting himself like a lamb to the slaughter every evening at ten— except for nights when he were on duty, which were less a relief than he'd hoped them to be. And after Vergil inevitably flipped out, went under and stumbled his way back, there would be milky coffee— horrible, too much coffee, too little sugar— and some actually fresh bread before they departed.

In excruciatingly small bits and pieces, he finally came to learn about h— _hhh_ — Nero. Nero talked back; Nero asked questions; Nero ran too fast, bounced when he should stand still, was the last to sleep and the first to wake on nap time. Nero was witty, and learned every word he heard, and he was huggy and sweet and kind and friendly and chubby and—

—one time, Vitto claimed, Nero had spent the entirety of his visit toddling around hugging the other toddlers, over and over; Vitto then shoved a broom into Vergil's face to snap him out of his magical fugue, and Vergil spent the next hour curled on the floor in a bleak stupor, because he'd been so _close_ , and so _vast, and so strong, strong enough, finally,_ and he knew it was some illusion and that he'd been about to waste his own efforts— but he hated Vittorino then, deeply and wholeheartedly, even as the cruel human took another blood sample and patted his shoulder— 

Nero-time was torment and reward in equal measures. And he knew he could spare himself the suffering by the simple expedient of arriving late, of forcing Vitto to forgo his tales for the sake of his sister, but...

Damn Vittorino, and damn his own stupid demonic lizard-brain— the allure of those few minutes of clinging to a stunted, malformed connection was overwhelming, almost as much as the experience of the connection itself. And the prospect of indulging in it— the _knowledge_ that, come evening, he would be all but invited to tread at the edge of the whirlpool... it _helped_.

More and more, he found himself brushing the pull back down and whispering _soon, not now, but soon_. And it helped. It gave him control.

It also gave him more hours in a day than he knew what to do with. He'd never actually noticed how much time he lost to the floaty softness of Nero Episodes, and after a week or so of excess free time, the possibilities finally dawned on him.

He could do research. _Proper_ research, instead of opening a book and staring at nothing. _He could be productive_.

He fell back into his father's notes with a vengeance, taking full advantage of Yamato's new skill to get to the trickier, more guarded archives. _Power_ was still a concern, but his focus this time became— well, parenthood among demons. How devils related to their young.

Sparda was not given to treatises on either the topic of power or familial relations, so his method remained the same: read everything, take notes on anything promising, don't forget to source for future cross-referencing. For safety, Vergil took to stashing his notes and the occasional tome on the rafters over Isobella's cell, along with some medical paraphernalia carefully stowed under Vitto's directions; often he went through them as he stood vigil in the Oracularium cell, with Isobella asleep on her cot and Vittorino asleep on his bedroll.

Isobella was... coming along. Vittorino said so, and Vergil could only trust his word. As it was, his blood had yet to be brought into play. But Vittorino's hesitance eventually proved wise: Two weeks into this uneasy routine, the effects of Vergil's impromptu donation were visibly waning, and his breath came to grow ragged after their trips like it hadn't for a while. 

But he brushed off Vergil's offered thumb, again.

"I still have your samples," he said, unloading the contents of his bag and hanging Isobella's saline drip from the nun's lamp hook. "May as well put what's left of them to use. Incidentally I still can't find any magical platelets or whatever, so I'm shelving that part until I can study some actual alchemy. Also," he raised a finger, as if about to announce something important, "your Nero Hangover samples have _so much_ cortisol, I'd be rushing you to emergency if your normal samples weren't squeaky clean."

A confused conversation followed, in which Vergil learned that Vittorino actually took those samples for a reason, and not just because he'd been too insensate to protest.

"Vergil, please— you could crush my ribs with a sneeze." Vittorino laughed softly, as if the notion of a grisly death amused him. "If that were a concern I'd never get anything done. We should take a sample _during_ an episode next time, see what we find—" 

According to him, cortisol was a hormone related to stress and trauma, as well as to a host of human health problems that not even Vittorino expected to apply to him.

"Which means your body reacts to... to snapping out of a Nero Episode as if it were an actual traumatic event," Vittorino concluded, a strange look upon his face. "Which is, uh. Interesting. And concerning. Good thing we're working on that, I guess?"

Vergil shrugged one shoulder and added that tidbit to his notes. He'd managed to dip in and out of his trance without issue earlier that very evening, and was still, one might say, riding high off the success— alongside the beautiful warmth that had evened out into a general feeling of wellness, uninterrupted by any harsh awakening. Even he would admit that his mood was unusually bright. He could get used to it. He _would_ get used to it, as that was the whole point of the ridiculous exercise.

But his next attempt, early one morning after night shift, failed so miserably he could but swear to never try it again. For whatever reason, he had underestimated the term "traumatic event", and forgotten that it applied to the experience of _deliberately allowing Nero to slip between his fingers against the shrieking pleas of his very blood and soul_ — 

It felt like dying. It felt like _wanting_ to die. And still it pulled at him, a temptation entirely divorced from the flesh: to no longer fight against the enchantment, to dive into the thrall, to embrace demonic instinct as readily as he'd always had. To drown in that thoughtlessly joyous spell and allow the warm balm of that beautiful, blessed _innocence_ to flood his veins and overtake his mind and suspend him in one eternal moment of gentle healing—

But they would sense _him_. They would find _him_. They would hunt _him_ , and hurt _him_ , and— Nero, _Nero_.

 _Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained._ But this was not, Vergil thought numbly as he lay crumpled in bed, the desire Blake had meant to describe when penning his lines; nothing so pure and wholesome, nothing so deeply spiritual, nothing that carried so unthinkably high a price.

He must protect Nero, even from his own twitter-patted... _nesting..._ instincts, or whatever it was he was currently floundering against. And thus his body lay in an ecstasy of flat, hollow despair, while his soul raised one beseeching hand to the sun and another held it back with ever-waning strength.

Thus the cycle had run, in those first nightmarish weeks. He would reach for the light, and as warmth seeped in he would recall both joy and its unacceptable cost; then he would shrink back into cold and bleakness, huddling against the crumbling shreds of his resolve until deprivation overwhelmed sense. But if he could huddle just— a little _closer_ —

Successful trances were rare, by dint of his own eagerness for them.

###

After months of treatment and research, however, they came upon two breakthroughs.

The first one was found on a stray bookkeeping sheet, upon which Sparda had happened to doodle a few danger-repelling wards. The doodles had made the otherwise mundane document worth preserving, apparently, or at least worth filing amid his notes on magic instead of in some lesser archive. But their true value, in Vergil's eyes, lay on its registry of incoming and outgoing correspondence with the _Island of Dumary_. 

Vergil had completely forgotten about the place— as well as the Vie de Marli, and its own claims to demonic ancestry. How addled had he been this entire time? He copied the wards for future examination and resolved to focus his research on personal letters. Father had been in friendly terms with the clan, hadn't he?

As he sat over his notes, flashlight in hand, back against Isobella's cot, mulling over the time period and the likely location for his father's correspondence... the second breakthrough came.

 _Vergil_ , something hissed, less a voice than a haunted exhale and the ghost of a word— from right behind him— 

His leg shot out to kick Vitto's bedroll even as he turned around, his throat clenching, breath locking, his sense of hearing taking nearly full over, and.

Beneath papery lids, Isobella's eyes shivered and flitted.

"—gil," she mumbled, again— voice weak, harsh and near destroyed like the rest of her, and _yet_ — 

Vittorino hovered over his shoulder, bleary-eyed but focused, and Vergil leaned into her, desperate to catch any single word.

"Isobella," he said, and if his voice was thick there was only Vitto there to laugh about it. "I'm here. I'm here! I came back, like I said—"

 _Not for her he hadn't—_ but this was no time for self-flagellation. Vergil shoved the pity-party down; comforting her came first.

"...he... back," she mumbled, syllables distorted by her desiccated lips, her swollen tongue. (They should drip solution more often, even with the intravenous—) "He..." she moaned something indistinct, ".......arda."

"I don't think that's a Tolkien reference," Vittorino whispered, while Vergil shushed him. At this point in their acquaintance Vergil was aware that he got babbly when he was excited, but that didn't make it any less annoying.

"...he... back..." she repeated, her eyelids fluttering over bulging eyes, "......you'll see..."

She settled down, back to her stillness, her slow breathing. And Vergil, too, settled back onto the floor, shivering like a newborn pup; he'd witnessed a miracle, and understood, suddenly, the appeal of religiosity. 

"She wasn't aware of us," Vittorino muttered, like an asshole writing his asshole notes. "But... this is good, this is very good— even if she were delirious before I doubt she could be delirious _out loud_ , so this is definitely an improvement." Then he shot Vergil a sharp look, its effect diminished by the sleep crystals and gunk adorning his eyelids. "She sounded like she was talking about you."

"She knew me," Vergil mumbled, feeling as if her ghost hovered pointedly over him, chilling his veins like little magic ever could. "She knew I was—"

"Nope," Vittorino said, with the confidence of a man who had no magic or poetry in his soul. "She was telling _someone else_ about you. Your name, and the Savior's, and about you coming back." He slapped his notebook closed, his face dark even for the standards of the half-lit cell. "Normally I would put this beneath her; she always hated pulling rank and using names, said it made her feel like a bitch. But..."

He set his notebook down, crawling closer to the bed, and gazed pityingly upon her.

"This place is— torture, literal, actual torture, the kind international councils forbid." His hand hovered over her thinned hair, painfully gentle, unlike him. "I... can't blame her, if she cracked enough to threaten. To tell these nuns that you'd be back for her— the one with the blood of the Savior."

"She waited for me," Vergil muttered.

"She did," Vittorino conceded. "She still does. For you— not me."

Vergil buried his head in her cot and, this time at least, Vittorino did not chide him for dampening her mattress. 

"I think she'd get a kick out of Tolkien," he said instead, as he patted Vergil's shoulder.

Tolkien was banned in Fortuna, and so was Blake, to his dismay. But Vergil recalled other favorites of hers— Pessoa, Meirelles. They should be available in the local library.

Starting the following night, Vergil read for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: Time to attempt to describe my Nero Episodes!  
> Vitto: You could use shorter words. Like "acute depressive episode" and "basically a religious experience"


	22. Intermission

"Sergeant Filippo," Supreme Commander Tridentino de Nicene greeted as Filippo entered. In deference to his worthiness of the title, Filippo saluted; and then he sprawled on the offered chair, back to being Tino's shitty foster brother.

Five manila folders were lined on Tridentino's desk. Filippo recognized them right away.

"A little below your station, isn't it?" he nodded at the folders. "Learn to delegate, sir."

Then he smirked, because Tino had that flat unamused look in his face. Ah, the older sibling privilege, a nectar to sip upon. 

"You say these knights are worthy of advancement," Tino said, without preambles, tapping one of the folders.

"I say that, yes," Filippo tapped the arm of his chair in turn. "Even that one."

Tino opened the folder. It was Vergil's, of course. 

"Tell me about him," the commander said.

Hmm. Filippo had never known his brother to have a problem with foreigners, although the situation _was_ unprecedented. Immigrants were rare to begin with, and it took at least a generation or two before that blood produced knights. 

They usually came _because_ there were other people to fight for once. 

"Well, I told you how I found him, already."

Soon after it had happened. Over a few glasses of wine, in front of a warm fireplace. The little girl napping on his lap. There were tangents and interruptions. They'd strayed into a new topic halfway through. Tino didn't even dignify him with a flat look.

"Tell me again," he said, using his Regal Voice. "Spare no detail."

Ah, well. He always did wish little Tino would appreciate his tales better.

"So I was covering for Giuseppe, that second-born son of a—"

"He's the only son of an electrician!" Tino protested, momentarily forgetting his dignity.

"And a second one to _boot_ ," Filippo sniffed, dismissing the matter with a flap of a thick hand. "Puking his guts out, the sot. _Boohoo, I'll never get married_ — not smelling of booze, he won't. Who even joins the Knights to get women? Anyway: I was covering for him, in that infernal new armor of the alchemists, there on the sweltering Blade, getting my photos taken, as you do—"

Tino was rubbing his face with both hands, to Filippo's delight.

"—when in stumbles this handsome son of a bitch in his silk coat, like, bright blue with this fancy gold embroidered dragon made of thorny vines, or something like that, and I know right away he's a devil hunter. It's their thing, you know!" Filippo was really into his story, now. "Even when they're eating out of the trash, they're always dressed to kill, so as they look good when they die. The devil weapon was a dead giveaway, too, I guess. Incredible thing, my eyes crossed just from looking at it."

"Elaborate," said Tino.

"Not much to say," Filippo shrugged. "I doubt he can use it to its full potential, I doubt _anyone_ could, really _._ It was probably handed down. He certainly treats it like an heirloom. Calls it a family relic, and it may well be, if his papa was in the business. The gossip is his entire family got eaten early. Old story, really— is why the hunters don't keep families, out there."

"They don't?" Tino asked, with sudden interest. 

Filippo smiled; he rarely had a good opportunity to talk about it, his fabled adventure in foreign lands. Even his report got burned, and then he was sworn to secrecy and blacklisted from promotions. Not that he was surprised or displeased, oh no, on the contrary.

He'd been sent out to fetch a stray devil weapon, and had instead uncovered an entire conspiracy involving several different and nominally opposed heretic cults as well as a bunch of respected names in the Order itself. The old Supreme Commander had personally tracked him down to stop him from destroying the Order's main source of research material. Blah blah, foreigners are acceptable losses, blah blah, summoning is okay when we do it. Filippo's hunter pals had killed him mid-rant, emptied entire cartridges in his head. No good thing ever came of a commander who wasn't a Nicene. 

After three years of missing in action, he'd returned the proud owner of three devil weapons and an entirely new perspective on the Church, the world, and the Savior himself. 

It felt good to be an overachiever.

"There ain't many hunters out there," Filippo started the old tale as he always, always did. "And not many demons either. Places thin in the Veil like Fortuna is, they're rare and they're out of the way, people know to avoid them. Most times when demons show up it's because some fool human opened the way for them, so it's really in everyone's best interests out there to think they're not real. The wise scholars, they do their research, then they publish some lies and safeguard the truth. The dumb scholars— they're the fools calling demons in, and they _always_ call in the nasty ones. So the hunters do the cleanup: they dress to kill and go out there ready to die. And when they're good at it, when they keep on not dying... they get a reputation, you know."

He licked his lip, his gaze straying, focused on a distant memory.

"I remember this woman, Shanoa. Body like a heathen goddess. Dressed like one, too. I think she made herself a trap for lustful demons, because that getup wasn't comfortable. Lots of leather and shiny plastic, killer heels. Literally. Sharpened to points, made for stabbing kicks. She was great at stealth somehow, even though it all creaked like crazy when she was in the fray. She always played up the seductress when she was on the job, but when our group was on downtime, she took the act off like she did her bangles, and she was just tired and mournful like all the others."

Tino was still listening carefully, even though he'd long strayed from the topic of Vergil. That was nice.

"One day," he continued, "when we were getting ready to storm the Brotherhood of— I forget, Isharbadong or something like that, it was a misspelled principality, we joked about it— they told me to go fetch Shanoa from her watch. She always went to this one rooftop to spy into some other building, for hours. Now I'm a right bastard, and I was curious, and no one would tell what she was spying on, not even the real shitty gossipers. So I got my own telescope, and I located her, and did a bunch of triangulating, and she was watching a school."

Tino stiffened. The point of the story was really no mystery, but Filippo appreciated, still, that he was neither rushed nor interrupted.

"Now Shanoa died on that raid— the bastards actually summoned that principality, you know, and because of the misspelling they had zero control and the fucker just went rampant, they all died and also like, half of us, we'd all barely gotten to be friends..." He paused, helped himself to Tino's coffee to better swallow the lump in his throat. Ooh, it tasted fancy. He felt immediately better. "So as we took stock of the rubble, her old pals were muttering to each other over who'd take over her watch. And because I'm a right bastard I walked up and asked what was it about the school. And they tell me— Shanoa had retired once. She put down her sniper gun and got herself married to a bashful scholar, had herself a girl. But she'd been just that good, and the demons came for her. Her man died. So she gave her baby away, and went back to the life."

The lump came back, and Filippo sighed, slow, heavy. He'd looked down on Shanoa for her dress and her attitude, criticized her and averted his eyes from her, but this far in his years, he was wise enough to recognize a queen. His foolishness haunted him, still.

"The little girl didn't even know her. She had new parents and a new name Shanoa didn't even seek to learn— never even looked into her new home, never got the address, in case a demon could get into her mind. But before every big job she'd go to that school and watch from afar, to remind herself what she was cleaning up the world for."

Tino stood up, with silent reverence, and walked away from the table— pretending to be deep in thought as Filippo wiped his eyes. After waiting long enough for Filippo to compose himself, he came back with a bottle of liquor and two small glasses. 

It was the fancy one, for big visitors. Filippo was moved.

"So," Tino started, hesitatingly, after they'd both savored the expensive drink, "you think Vergil is one such child of—"

"Not— not _literally_ , no," Filippo shook his head. "He could be, true, but just as easily, he might have been sponsored. This is how it goes, for devil hunters, they get brought into the world when they survive a demon attack, and if they survive going _after_ the demons, a veteran may take them in. To talk them out of it, usually," Filippo waved his glass, and Tino graciously refilled it. "Had a few on my case calling me sonny and the such, who got right mad when they found out about the Order. Like we send babes into the fray."

"Oh?" Tino laughed.

"Yeah, really! I mean, I was twenty," Filippo shrugged, "and I was as versed and calm as any veteran, so they could tell I was on the job for years. And these hunters, they all start from early on and they die a lot, there isn't an Order to look after them and train them or anything. So a hunter in his thirties is a living legend, right, and then this legend sees a newbie with snot on his nose and goes _by the Savior, I was a babe, how could anyone let me do the shit I did?_ And they get real fussy over the new blood. It's like..." Filippo wiggled his fingers, sifting for words, "they... they go into the life so they can spare other people from going into the life. Each new hunter is a failure. So either you talk them out and hope they listen, or you take them in and teach them best as you can, so they can live to be thirty and understand your feelings, too. Get it?"

"I think I do," said Tino, slowly, staring into his glass with shoulders slumped. 

He was silent for a long time, before finally raising his eyes to Filippo, and he looked very much the younger sibling then.

"...how _was_ Vergil, when you met?" He asked, almost bashfully.

"He was a fright," Filippo said, unhesitatingly. "He was covered in salt and sand and smelled like wet garbage. His eyes were like—" he pinched his fingers into circles and put them over his own, "and he was like—" he swayed theatrically on his seat, dropping his head over one hunched shoulder. "Concussed, for sure," he concluded. "I thought maybe he was shipwrecked. I mean, just imagine, you're a hunter in some ship, right, just going somewhere, and a demon comes at you and the whole thing goes down and you wash up on a beach and the Order exists. For a guy on his ropes it must have been a blessing, all the more if he's on his own."

"But you said—"

"Tino, Tino!" Filippo shook his head in despair. "No one can fight with half an eye on a babe. His devil weapon was handed down, what do you _think_ that means for whoever had it last?"

Tino covered his face with his hands again, but it was a lot less satisfying to watch, this time, when Filippo felt like doing the same.

"And then..." Tino said at last, slowly. "You saw him fight. Right?"

"Yes, a swarm of scarecrows bled up from the pavement, like fifteen of them, maybe. Broad daylight, middle of the Blade. It was incredible, never seen the like."

"And he fought them off, right? I seem to remember it. I thought you were exaggerating, though— fifteen is abnormal for the hour and the location both. Did you report—"

"Savior take me, did I say that?" Filippo laughed, incredulous. "Did I really use those words? Me, with a bottle of wine down? Tino, that can't be true. I don't truck with understatements." His eyes sharpened, the memory sobering him up. "When I say I've never seen the like, I mean _him_. He fell upon the lot like the Savior's unmerciful fist. And that devil weapon, his sword— I said he couldn't possibly use it in full, that's true, and I quake to think what he could do if he did. Because it fit his hand like air fits a lung. He was concussed and dirty and wet and basically half dead, and he danced into the fray like a leaf in the wind, the swarm was ash and blood in a minute flat. And then—"

Filippo did it again: dropped his head on his shoulder, bugged his eyes out, swayed exaggeratedly in place.

"He just sat back on the curb and went back to being concussed," he capped the tale. 

Tino glanced back down at the report. Nearly a year of spectacular service was prefaced by a picture; in it, the lad looked sharp and well-fed and had a hint of a smirk, even, as if he were humoring the photographer by allowing his likeness to be recorded. He had the bearing of aristocracy, of royalty, and he wore it well.

Tino turned the page to the recruitment file and its picture, taken a week or so after Vergil had first joined. He looked vague and anxious in it, his eyes ringed and his cheekbones hollow, his hair lying lank half over his forehead. Handsome, but in a haunted and half-broken way, his gaze heavy with too many things seen too early in life. Filippo wanted to pat his head, as if he were a veteran in the mainland. 

This kid made him want kids.

"Well," Tino said, hesitantly, his hand hovering over the page as if he, too, wished to pat Vergil, "about the man himself, then."

"He's a calamity in the field, best in this group by far. Goes through demons like they're paper," Filippo started, glad to be done with the emotional part. "Speaking of, he's good at the paperwork, too. Definitely used to doing his own homework, but they all do, out there. Hunters have to gather their own intel."

Tino nodded slowly as he spoke, eyes still fixed upon the photo. "And— you wrote here that socialization is his weak point."

"Devil hunters get along like cats in a sack," Filippo said. "Which does make them a fun bunch to be around, mind, but unless it's a big job that everyone's got a stake in—" like his own, years ago, "—then they each keep to a territory. Now, Vergil never _causes_ trouble, but some lads have it against him, you know—" 

"Yeah," Tino nodded knowingly, "because—"

"Blah blah, foreigner, heretic, yeah. And here, Vergil always _ends_ the trouble, and he always ends on top. He's a proud son of a bitch and he fights to win, even when he fights with words."

"Not very politically-minded."

"I've seen him twist some brains around, though," Filippo said. "So I think he has the knack, just not the inclination."

"Like you, then," Tino allowed himself a smile.

"I like the lad for a reason."

Tino nodded again, thoughtfully. And then he did something unexpected.

He dug out his wallet.

"I do believe," he said, as he thumbed through bills and documents, "that this is a matter that one might call— personal."

Filippo was raring up to be offended, but Tino finally tugged out... a photo, not money.

He set the photo on the desk, right above Vergil's folder, turned around to face Filippo. The first thing Filippo noticed was the drab olive green of institutional walls, exactly as nauseating as he remembered them; clearly the Nicenes still frequented the orphanage, as was their tradition. And from Kyrie's wide, flushed smile, smack-dab in the middle of the kid-swarmed old couch, she at least enjoyed the company.

Sitting at her feet, crowded out of the couch, was a beautiful little toddler, grinning like tomorrow wasn't a thing. He shone out of the photo, pale and silver-haired, his happy squinting eyes an exotic sky blue.

"Savior have mercy," Filippo muttered, through numb lips. The realization fell upon him like a curse, the proof but a glance away, in the heavy, haunted, hopeless blue eyes of a recruitment photo. The miserable, concussed gaze of a sodden youth, richly garbed, stumbling down the street. All his assumptions toppling like a sand castle.

"I confess," Tino said, slowly, his own eyes heavy upon the file on his desk, "when I called you here, I expected a completely different conversation to take place. I feel—"

He laughed bitterly, and Filippo gripped his arm, filled with anxiety and horror. "Tino," he said.

"I feel _wretched_ , Lippo, I—"

"Tino," Filippo repeated, "he jumped."

Tino said nothing, but buried his face in his hands, again.

"He _jumped_ ," Filippo whispered to himself, clutching his chest and wondering if it was anguish or a heart attack. "Oh, merciful Savior, _Tino_. The sand. The water. He jumped. Oh, the _lad_. He went into the sea—"

Tino flipped the folder closed in a sudden decisive slap, betrayed by the two wet drops that immediately fell upon the cover. "About the child," he said, hoarsely.

Filippo clutched his glass and drank the dregs in a miserable attempt to keep his shit together. 

"This is— an open secret, of sorts," Tino mumbled, wiping his eyes while pretending to pinch the bridge of his nose. "There is a lad, Vittorino Martinelli. He's doing medicine, even took a year abroad. A dark, gloomy sort, on the sickly side. Kind of a genius."

Filippo nodded, despite having no clue where the topic was going, or how it related to _his_ poor lad.

"He volunteered to check on the children's health when he—" Tino waved a hand, his face shifting into a bitter grimace, "learned of the... 'budgetary cuts'."

" _More_ of them?" Filippo asked, aghast.

"Oh, no, just the one, you know." Tino's rueful grin was little better.

"But that was—"

"Yes, years ago," Tino finally lowered the hand he'd been hiding his tears into. "He said he'd read the note on an old paper when he was doing research. You know how it goes, they shove the announcement on page five behind the advertisements in a thumb-sized square, and then pretend it's always been that bad. But this lad, he—"

"He thinks the kid is sick," Filippo gasped, his horror multiplying tenfold.

" _No!_ " Tino cried, aghast. " _Lippo!_ Turn your mouth away!" He hissed, furiously, sketched an evil-repelling sign upon the air— and then froze when the air sparked under his fingertip, charged, saturated, leaving a trailing glow in its path. 

The two stared bug-eyed as little gleaming flecks fluttered down, swaying and landing on the desk, leaving tiny scorch marks behind. 

None landed on the photo. The children grinned up, oblivious to the danger, to the evil repelled.

Tino's hand fell slowly upon the desk, upon Vergil's file. "Vittorino," he continued, whispering fearfully and almost respectfully, "has a twin sister. Isobella Martinelli. She was interned in the Chantry of the Candelary—"

"Oh, there is is," Filippo said, bitterly—

"—on the same day the child was found on the steps of the orphanage."

"There it is," Filippo repeated, not bothering to fight his renewed tears. "He jumped. Of course. His ladylove in the Chantry, and a child he can't take with him, what is there left for a boy to do? He gave himself to the sea and the sea spat him back. What else was there? What could he do but his duty? Oh, my lad," he sniffled. "My _lad_. He joined us for his _watch_. Oh, Savior, look upon him— watch over him, Shanoa!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rejoice, my friends: the next chapter is going to be almost as fat as Vergil’s wallet of Nero pictures from chapter 4


	23. The Photo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some eye-related gore incoming. Mostly comedic and casually described.

Vergil arrived at Vittorino's hours before the usual time, and Vitto walked in to find him crouched in his Order uniform, digging around the books for the _Treatise on Venereal Diseases_ — which was where they kept Isobella's medical schedule, since its grisly macro shots of genital warts meant his mother refused to open or even touch it for longer than strictly necessary. 

"I'm free tomorrow afternoon," Vergil said without preamble, while searching a stack of gastrointestinal textbooks. The stupid woman always hid the treatise where it was hardest to find, as if it were her son's sole source for salacious crotch photos instead of a libido-withering nightmare. "I'm opening a blood seal in the morning, and then I'll be on her, depending."

"That's sudden," Vittorino said— about the afternoon, not the seal. Vergil had been going through them with a passion for the past several months, and in an even greater frenzy since breaking into the Chief Alchemist's lab; hunkering up in a nest of papers on the Oracularium rafters was routine by now. "Anything happen? You haven't had a schedule change in a while."

Vitto ran his eyes over his collection as he asked, and Vergil stood, slapping the dust off his knees; Vitto knew every single item in his library, and could locate a stray book with an acuity Vergil was not particularly interested in matching at the moment. In fact, Vitto was already making a beeline for a particular stack as Vergil answered.

"I do think I'll be getting a new schedule—" he dug absently through the book-camouflaged icebox for Vitto's ubiquitous iced tea. "But tomorrow is just some ceremony. I'm changing ranks then I'm free for the day, or so Filippo says."

Vittorino straightened, and the stack of books he was digging from toppled. "Changing _ranks?_ "

"Yes," said Vergil, raising a bottle and closing the icebox. "You're out of tea."

"Isn't that a promotion?" Vitto asked, his voice growing muffled as Vergil went into his kitchen. "You're getting— are you getting promoted?"

"Yes, that's the word," Vergil said, absently, as he dug around for Vitto's can of loose leaf. "What's on the book for tomorrow? And I'll forward my new timetable when I have it."

"You're getting promoted, you loon," Vitto groused as he followed Vergil into the kitchen, slapping the warty treatise onto the counter. "Show some enthusiasm."

"I've stood at the edge of hell, literally _and_ metaphorically," Vergil said, smirking, as he prepared the bottle for a cold brew. "Very little compares."

" _Literally?_ " Vitto's brows shot up; as usual, he'd latched onto what was simultaneously the right _and_ the worst, wrongest possible thing. 

Vergil slapped the cork down, then held the bottle in both hands, hesitating. "It wasn't my proudest moment," he admitted, eventually.

Vitto shrugged, then tugged the bottle off his hands. This far into their acquaintance, at least, he knew when not to dig. 

"Congratulations on your promotion," he said, instead, his voice muffled as he left the kitchen to stash the bottle. 

"I'm not promoted yet," Vergil shot back, half-heartedly; the reminder had dropped him into a bizarre and melancholic mood. His defeat at Temen-ni-Gru had dominated his thoughts for so long, and yet...

He caught himself staring at the missing tile by the table, the dent in the exposed cement where he'd often pressed his head. He hadn't done it in a while.

The freaking out, rather; he'd been doing plenty of leaning, but lately it'd been on purpose. Sometimes even on that tile, like it was his own private joke. Reaching out to— to Nero would never be quite second-nature, it was still too raw and intense an experience, too primal, a vortex of tangled magic and feelings he'd since given up on untying. 

But it was strange, to think of not having that forbidden headspace to retreat to. Of never knowing, never _feeling_ it. Even when he lost control of the trance, even when he fell into the maelstrom and had to fight not to plunge willingly downward, when he tore his way back feeling like every vein in his body was a shrieking throat—

He patted his coat for his notebook, but gave up even as he found it. No, that turn of phrase was entirely too melodramatic, for all that it was his best description yet. Nero would need these notes, someday, maybe; he should be reassuring, not terrifying. 

Still, for no reason other than his own satisfaction, he opened the notebook and wrote: _SOON, NERO!!! SOON!!!!_

And then he added another exclamation mark for every bubble of excitement that popped in his chest.

It was unthinkable, the notion of a life without this joy, all the greater now that he'd _finally_ unearthed the Order's dastardly plans for Nero. Which were— he still could hardly bring himself to believe it, but it was true, he had checked, double and triple-checked, and.

There were none.

The Order of the Sword was completely oblivious to Nero's existence.

Very deliberately, he closed his notebook around his pen and clenched his fingers around it, fighting the urge to dance—

He'd danced, in the Chief Alchemist's lab. There were files on Dante and there were files on him, and he'd held them to his chest as he waltzed drunkenly in relief and disbelief that there was not a breath or a word or a hint of Nero in them. The fools, the fools, the _beautiful fools_. His own file didn't even contain his presence in the island! Incredible, _marvelous._

__

Both files had question marks for their mother's name. They didn't even know Dante and he were twins! Beautiful! Unbelievable! Their sole excuse was that Dante hunted demons while dressed like a cocaine-addicted garage band reject. Did they assume Father slept around? They probably did, the beautiful fools. He would crush them for the insult, and _dance_.

__

He hugged the notebook to his chest. That discovery had changed everything, for him, for Nero, and for Vitto and Bella. The future spread ahead of them like a glorious tapestry of possibilities. The game had changed and he held all the pieces. He would have it all. He _demanded_ it all.

__

"Are you being a maniac? Because if you are I'll—"

__

Vergil lowered his notebook, his face pinched, his glee fizzling into embarrassment. "I cannot have _one miserable moment—_ "

__

"Of grinning to yourself like a homicidal loon? Go right ahead if you wish," Vitto shrugged, walking into the kitchen with a folder in hand, "but I'm not sure you'll deserve to look at this, then. It's not for impure eyes."

__

He flapped the folder enticingly, and Vergil watched him flatly.

__

"Impure eyes, in this pure land," he said, dryly. "Perish the thought."

__

Vittorino rolled his eyes, slapped his arm with the folder before offering it outright. "And I thought you were in a good mood," he teased.

__

"I _was_ in a good mood," Vergil groused, glaring suspiciously at the folder. "But then you—"

__

Vitto slapped his shoulder again. "Dear _Savior_. Just take it, for your promotion or whatever. I'll congratulate you tomorrow since you're being anal-retentive about it, but you can have this today." Another slap, as Vergil slowly reached out to take it. "Come on."

__

Vergil accepted the folder with great misgivings; often, Vittorino put him in mind of Dante— his irreverence, his penchant for flippancy— and it set the older brother in him on guard, despite every single one of their numerous and evident dissimilarities. 

__

But... Vittorino had never taken undue liberties where it _really_ mattered, and with his confidence somewhat restored, he opened the folder.

__

Oh.

__

Vittorino spoke, but it didn't matter. The notebook slipped from his slack elbow, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, nothing could possibly matter before this. The sun shone out of the folder. It blinded him, and then healed him. 

__

The folder had a photo, and the photo had a boy, and the boy was perfect.

__

_The boy was perfect_.

__

Vitto was making some vaguely distressed noises as he pushed Vergil— to the chair by his tile, Vergil knew from long experience— but it was only when he felt the cool misty droplets of a spray bottle on his cheeks that he noticed his eyeballs had burst, _again_.

__

Vergil started chuckling. This was getting to be a silly problem. 

__

"Vergil, for _fuck's_ sake," Vitto snapped, hilariously, and apparently turned the nozzle to squirt, because Vergil's face was then pelted with quite pointed and directed streams. "Savior give me strength, I thought you could handle your shit by now. I can't do this."

__

"I'm handling myself just fine—"

__

"Your eyes are _craters_ —"

__

"You are the one overly agitated by the situation. They'll grow back," he said soothingly, floating in an ocean of peace, not in darkness but in comforting, soft light. "You've seen them heal."

__

"I wish I could _forget—_ oh dear Savior in Heaven," the plastic bottle was set down with a clatter as Vitto's voice wandered to the other side of the kitchen. For a medical student who pranked his own mother with photos of rotting penises, he was awfully squeamish about the sight of deflated eyeballs refilling.

__

Carefully and with a whispered apology, Vergil closed the folder back onto Nero's visage, in case blood sprayed out like the last time.

__

"Are you presentable?" Vitto asked, fussily, his voice bouncing flat from whichever cabinet he was hunkered under. 

__

"Just— a second— _there_ ," Vergil said, blinking out blood clots and gunk and refocusing his new eyes. Oh, good, the folder was clean. The uniform was a mess, but he had spares.

__

"I swear if I had _any_ idea you were going to overflow over this I _oh sweet merciful savior._ " 

__

Vittorino had been walking back to the table, but turned hastily instead, clinging to the wall.

__

"No, no," Vergil said quickly, as he coaxed the old corroded membrane out of his regenerated tear ducts. "It's just residue, I'm done."

__

He wouldn't normally bother with reassurances, but swaying in place actually looked really alarming when seen from the outside. It didn't help that Vittorino swayed like every joint in his body was an elbow. 

__

"I'm not, I'm _not_ looking, fuck you, just," Vitto flapped his arm vaguely towards the counter, "clean yourself. I'm gonna puke."

__

Vergil rolled his eyes— conveniently moving a stubborn bit of skin out of a socket— as Vitto actually scurried off the kitchen, half-clinging to the wall still. "Who is the dramatic loon _now_ ," he called out, then reached for the roll of paper towels and the toppled spray bottle. He didn't really need the antiseptic solution, but it made Vitto feel better, and it helped to get the blood from his face, too.

__

Blowing his nose produced more blood clots and shed membranes, along with half-congealed magic. The bin was overflowing with bloody and somewhat charred paper by the time he was done.

__

By the time Vitto peeked back in Vergil was mostly cleaned up, admiring Nero's picture with what he half-heartedly called his Outside Eyes. The experience lost some of its enchantment that way, since it was really just a slip of paper with the sweetest most lovely child pouting out of it, but at least the tears, _actual_ , pouring from him were pushing out the leftover dregs of raw magic stuck in his ducts.

__

"You have the _worst_ sinusitis, I swear," Vitto said weakly, staggering in and sagging onto the chair opposite. He looked distinctly green. "Can we talk shop, now, since it's what you came for? How did you find this new seal?"

__

"What's he wearing?" Vergil asked instead, eyes glued to his new treasure. 

__

"The orphanage uniform. Expect to find anything interesting? I still can't get over that entire codex of calligraphy exercises."

__

Vergil couldn't either.

__

"He wears— _this_ — every day?" Vergil insisted, still, his eyes fixed upon Nero's photo. He could get behind the outfit's intention, but that plaid went so terribly with his complexion! Or anyone's, really. And it was over-sized. And that _hat_.

__

"Hell no, they don't have the budget to maintain these uniforms, or enough for all the children. They wear donations. The institution keeps some old ones for the pictures, though. He turned three a little while ago so they took a new batch and I finagled this one out from the outtake pile."

__

"—this is an _outtake!?_ " Vergil blurted out in a pitch he'd never known himself capable of, and his entire face went warm—

__

"Do NOT!" Vitto shouted, his voice more thunderous than it had ever been. "Do _not_ leak magic out the eyes again, I swear to the SAVIOR—"

__

The little he did came out diluted in bog-standard tears, so no grisly ophthalmologic incident took place, to Vitto's relief. Vergil buried his face in his hands anyway; he couldn't wrap his mind around either notion, that this adorable picture could be considered _unfit_ for its purpose, or that there was a _better_ one.

__

" _Three years_ ," he moaned, the echo of his devil blood reverberating through his throat. Three whole years of Nero lying unclaimed like a heavenly blessing by the roadside, nearly an entire year of which he _should_ have— have— but hadn't.

__

Nearly an entire year of not releasing his devil form. It thrummed under his skin now, constantly overflowing with accumulated, compressed, barely leashed power, poised to take over and sweep its claws across the island, to claim h _hhhhHHH_ — to claim _that_ which owned _him_. 

__

He growled, his entire chest rattling in demonic frustration. He _would_ — right _now_ — but—

__

"Don't," Vittorino said, again, but less hysterical and more concerned. "Don't do the thing."

__

" **I am _not_ doing the thing**," the devil snarled through his mouth. He wouldn't, he couldn't, however desperately he yearned to. No overloaded, out-of-control instinct could hope to override _that_ one, and it, too, was overloaded and vociferously out of control.

__

"There _has_ to be," Vittorino stood from his chair, pacing in tight circles. "There _has_ to, a journal, a treatise of some sort. The Savior left descendants, half our lineages claim his ancestry, they can't _all_ be lying. At least for a few centuries after his departure cases like yours should have been registered—"

__

Vergil kept his peace, trying to coax his blood back into a semblance of dormancy. He hadn't the heart to disabuse Vitto of that notion, but even though he had once steeled himself to the possibility, his years of research had unearthed no hint of any previous family of Sparda's. The occasional romance, yes, but his few partners' descendants, if there were any, were fully human and easily traced to a different relationship. Fortunan aristocracy kept their origins carefully obfuscated, but it was unlikely to be the exception.

__

Dante and he had been the first human hybrids produced by Sparda. 

__

But Dumary had flourished concurrently with his Father's time in Fortuna. They'd been on friendly terms. There _had_ to have been an exchange of knowledge. There had to be, yes, a _journal_ , in which his Father mused on their findings. There had to, otherwise that meant his Father had crammed every secret cranny of Fortuna Castle with nothing but _garbage_.

__

Like an entire codex, leather-bound and richly decorated, concealed behind a brick beneath a statue in the Main Hall, filled with nothing but attempts at coming up with a _cool signature_. 

__

And worst of all, he could easily picture him concealing it in a hurry and then failing to retrieve it. It was hard not to. He'd deliberately searched his memories for instances of Father in informal settings, hoping for behavioral clues, for a hint on his own intensifying madness, and what he'd remembered could not be unremembered.

__

Bashful and awkward. The Legendary Dark Knight Sparda had been _bashful_ and _awkward_.

__

He hated that the memories filled him with fondness.

__

"...I can't hold out much longer," he confessed, shamefully, as his nostalgia weakened him further. He'd never suffocated, never had a need to hold his breath for more than five hours, but— this had to be how it felt, for a human, to drown. To feel their lungs bucking in their chests, uncaring whether they'd be inhaling air or water. He needed Nero on a fundamental level, and his soul was seizing from his lack. 

__

"Maybe," Vitto mumbled, "if I pretend Nero has something contagious, I can get him to—"

__

"No."

__

"—be isolated for a few days, in bed rest. Vergil, for fuck's sake, this will lay you both down flat. There's no hiding this kind of accumulated magic."

__

"I know."

__

"This entire building is so saturated that sparks fly out when I sneeze, and that's just from you showing up every other evening. And it'll only get worse. Putting it off was a mistake."

__

"I know."

__

"Stubborn loon."

__

And there lay his dilemma. The burden of their stretched, incomplete bond had grown exponentially, even and perhaps _because_ Vergil had adapted to it, learned to navigate it, even at times indulged in it. By the time he'd decoded enough of his own instincts to understand the ongoing process, he'd found himself standing at the crest of a massive tidal wave. Raw, compressed. Magic and feelings, indistinguishable from each other.

__

He could _not_. Nero was... Nero was so small. He could _not_.

__

He rubbed his face, uncovered his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes burned from the overflow of tear-diluted magic, now half-dried. From the way Vitto despondently sprayed his face, his cheeks were probably peeling in their trail. For it to damage _him_ , the level of raw concentrated magic in his system had to be absolutely stupid, and that was just another reason to not subject Nero to it. There had to be another way, a _proper_ way, a soft, gentle and warm way, for _Nero_.

__

"This... this new seal," he started, hesitantly, unwilling to pin his hopes but pinning them anyway, "it's in the Castle's main bedroom, where Sparda was said to sleep. I'm assuming that's a fact. It holds several seals, blood and not, and also—" he squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them vigorously, "—Sanctus sleeps in it."

__

" _Pig_ ," Vitto muttered under his breath.

__

"Most other seals have been opened or tampered with," Vergil continued. "But that one is pristine. I don't think its presence can even be felt without bearing Sparda's blood in your veins. And the location is very— deliberate." 

__

That last fact, more than any others, raised his expectations. It significantly lowered the likelihood of finding a pile of hastily concealed doodles of cats in cute dresses.

__

Vitto breathed a heavy sigh of his own. "Good luck with it, then," he said, setting the squirt bottle and the paper towels away, on the counter. "But if it's another dud, I'm having Nero hospitalized. I'm putting your cortisol levels on his results and rushing him to the ICU and—"

__

"Yeah, yeah," Vergil interrupted him, hurriedly, because he was getting excited despite himself. No. _Bad_. 

__

"We're yanking that band-aid. This is getting stupid. Give me that," Vitto said, tiredly, waving at the open folder. 

__

Vergil's palm fell upon it like a boulder.

__

How strange, he thought, as he blinked his eyes open and looked down at his own hand, in its slightly blood-stained glove. He hadn't triggered. He literally could _not_ without jumping towards Nero like an insane hare leaping into the flames. But somehow each finger in that hand was buried down to the knuckles in both the cardboard flap and the table underneath.

__

It's not like he'd even thought Vitto would take the photo permanently. Vitto was trustworthy, and smarter than that besides. This was just... more instinct, overloaded and out of control.

__

"I think," Vergil said, as gently as he could put it, "you'll have to kill me to get this photo back."

__

"I don't want the _photo_ , you lunatic—" Vitto sobbed, or laughed, it was hard to tell. "I have my own— and you're _not_ looking at it, you're going to be an irrational dumbass about it, don't even—" He started laughing for good, a little hysterically, as Vergil desperately tried and completely failed to not physically perk up at the news of _more_ Nero. "I wanted the _folder_ , you rabid nincompoop. I use it for class."

__

"Oh," said Vergil, even though his hand still wasn't unclenching from the tabletop. 

__

"But it's going straight to the trash now, because you had to be a tool—"

__

"Oh," said Vergil again.

__

"Just— just take the photo. With your other hand. Yes, that one," he said as Vergil tentatively moved said hand, "yep, wait! The glove. Get that glove out, it's filthy. Nope, no way, I'm not touching that, it has melted eye on it, use your teeth. Yes, you loon. There we go. Now pick it up. It has that white margin so you can touch it. Yes, good, finally! _Hell._ " 

__

Vergil's other hand released the table, easily, to help him steady the violently quivering paper. His glove was ripped at the fingertips— he _had_ manifested claws, apparently, although a partial and unintended trigger would explain why he felt like his brains had squeezed out of his ears and been replaced by helium. 

__

He barely paid attention as the folder remnants were slid out of his vicinity. Oh, this photo was so— this photo was— holding it by the folder had been _easier_. It was too powerful.

__

"I feel like I should store this in a cement block," Vitto mumbled, and Vergil spared exactly two milliseconds of gaping to glance at the folder remains. The inside had the charred print of a palm that was unmistakably demonic. The outside had a bright glowing stain on it, more overflow.

__

Better the folder than his eyes. He tugged the ripped glove off with his teeth, and dropped it to wherever the first had gone. If he cradled the photo in both hands, the shaking diminished enough for him to properly study the pink on those cheeks. They were so round. The gradation was exquisite.

__

Vergil allowed himself a ribcage-rattling, satisfied croon. Nero was healthy.

__

"So, can you even put it away?" Vitto asked, from somewhere.

__

"I..." 

__

He had no idea. Vergil examined Nero's squinty little frown. _Could_ he?

__

"Let's walk you through this, then. Pull out your wallet."

__

"I don't have one," Vergil said, as he tentatively lowered the photo from eye-level to the table. His shaking was subsiding as he developed a tolerance to Nero's displeased dimples, so he freed a hand, since Vitto obviously had some sort of idea.

__

"Where do you keep your money, then?"

__

Vergil wordlessly dropped his coin purse on the table. 

__

Vitto started coughing, then laughing, for some reason. "Did you pick that out of the trash?" he asked, amid giggles. 

__

The question annoyed Vergil enough that he paused in his study to glare at Vitto. He had _not_ , in fact, picked it out of the trash, but he _had_ found it in the middle of the Fuller, covered in tire tracks, half its sequins scattered, and felt a deep kinship. He'd patched the holes and reinforced the seams and it was perfectly serviceable, thank you, but even he could tell it was little different from picking it out of the trash, and that meant he couldn't sass Vitto back.

__

"Yeah," said Vitto slowly, shaking his head. "The photo won't fit in there unless you fold it— I thought so, I thought so," he said mildly, as Vergil's entire body locked and he began desperately summoning and dispelling swords, trying to bleed out the whirlwind of panicked magic whipping around him. "Hold on, I think I have something— also keep doing that, it's better than crying magic. Don't let me come back to burst eyeballs."

__

The kitchen turned into a grotesquely strobing discotheque as entire forests of swords came to being and broke apart immediately, and Vitto had to wait for them to thin out before he could make it back in. 

__

"This ought to look weird from the street," Vitto commented, as he navigated past some still oscillating blades. "Feeling better? Got it out of your system?"

__

"I hate everything," Vergil mumbled, blinking blood through a splitting headache. His eyes hadn't burst— all the damage helpfully took place inside his skull instead.

__

"Except for Nero, right?" Vitto came back with the squirt bottle and paper towels.

__

"...yes," Vergil conceded, weakly, while Vitto wiped his numb face for him. Asshole couldn't handle deflated eyes but was fine with massive brain hemorrhage. Stupid humans.

__

"Where's the picture? Alright, good," Vitto said encouragingly as Vergil revealed the little treasure, shielded from his ongoing nosebleed under cupped hands. "It should fit. Here, congratulations on your promotion."

__

Vitto set some thick dark rectangle down by Vergil's elbow, wrapped in plastic film. 

__

"But..." Vergil stared blankly at the bundle.

__

"Fine, fine, it's tomorrow. Congratulations on tomorrow." Vitto sat on the edge of the table, arms crossed, bottle still in hand. "It's a wallet, take it."

__

Vergil hesitantly freed a hand to pick the bundle, his brain regenerated enough to finally parse the shape. It was... the ugliest thing he'd ever seen, and he had a half-sequined coin purse patched with Order-issue fabric. He ripped the plastic packing and, yes, it really was bulky, hefty leather in shades of dusty black, mud brown and dark green, like a scummy pond under dull skies. It was stitched thickly and in double rows, layered and patched in stiff asymmetrical stripes, and it put him in mind of something stupid his bleeding brain couldn't quite place, but— all in all, it looked like it could take a tumble down the entirety of Lamina Peak without a scuff.

__

"Why do you even have this thing?" Vergil asked, quite reasonably. Something about this wallet felt distinctly, almost maliciously, anti-Vitto. Hell, it had a zipper with a solid iron tongue, and was stamped with the emblem for a boutique Vergil recalled from sartorial shoppings past, far in the mainland. It specialized in ugly tactical gear, and he used to browse it just to revel in his own contempt. 

__

"So, uh," Vitto scratched his cheek with the nozzle on the spray bottle, "when I left for Capulet, Mother decided I needed a—"

__

" _No_ ," Vergil put the wallet back down, leaned back in exaggerated horror. 

__

"So yeah, she imported this ugly thing for me and I hate it," Vitto continued, averting his eyes, "so please take it, for the love of—"

__

"Vitto," Vergil tried to school his face into seriousness and failed. "Vitto, I got it."

__

"—please rid me of it," Vitto begged, through a bout of awkward laughter.

__

"Vitto," Vergil repeated, pointing accusingly at the thing. "This is a _jeep_."

__

"Oh my god," Vitto whispered.

__

"Your mother saw you off to Capulet with the military-grade SUV of wallets."

__

"Of course, of _course_ she did." Vitto hid his face behind the spray bottle. "She wouldn't let me learn how to drive—"

__

"The next best thing, obviously," Vergil concluded, smugly, "is to drive your money around in a _bullet-proof wallet_."

__

"Well, it's yours now!" Vitto said, cheerfully. "Take Nero for a ride in your new jeep!"

__

"How—" Vergil coughed out a surprised laugh, as he unzipped the ugly thing open and it immediately burst into compartments. "How many credit cards did she expect you to have!?"

__

" _Zero!_ " Vitto cried, maniacally, throwing his arms up and almost slipping from the table. "They're evil tools of Mundosian corruption, don't you know."

__

"How thoughtful of her, to provide this jeep," Vergil shook his achy head to himself, "to defend your virtue from all those devilish cards trying to fly into your pockets."

__

"And now it will defend _yours_."

__

"How _dare_ you," Vergil retorted, drawing himself up with a dignified (and bloody) sniff, "imply that I require help in fending off _financial overtures_."

__

"My bad, I forgot you're the guy with the trashbag of coin bags."

__

"This is recycling."

__

"More like a travesty. Are you taking Nero on that ride?"

__

It was amid that easy banter that Vergil carefully pushed Nero's pouting little visage into a reinforced, stiff sleeve designed specifically for pictures. Then he transferred his paper bills and documents into their appropriate compartments, all while the both of them exhorted Nero to look after the money and not put anything in his mouth; and by the time he'd zipped the wallet shut, the fussy demon in him was surprisingly comfortable with storing Nero's little effigy within it.

__

"Thank you, Vitto," Vergil said, earnestly, once they were done giggling over Nero's imaginary car ride. "For reasoning with the magical idiot throwing tantrums in my hindbrain."

__

Vitto made a dismissive gesture with the spray bottle. "It's the same as reasoning with the _other_ magical idiot."

__

"If you say so."

__

"You're both the same man."

__

"I suppose we are," Vergil mused. Every drop of him did yearn for the same thing, and if his devil form felt estranged and oversensitive, it was wholly due to its forced state of repression.

__

"Everyone has a shrieking asshole in their hindbrain," Vitto continued, as he sprayed the table and rubbed the bloodstains off of the floral plastic pretending to be a towel. "On that matter at least you're not special."

__

"Yours is afraid of eyes," Vergil quipped, and gave his best smirk when Vitto turned the spray nozzle threateningly towards him. "You cannot harm me. I have a jeep."

__

He dodged a misty puff and shifted in his seat, reaching for the detritus he'd dropped in his episode. "Hopefully I will never have reason to reveal this wallet in your mother's presence," he said, thoughtfully, as he fetched his gloves and notebook. 

__

"Hopefully you'll never meet her, you mean."

__

"This is a small island," Vergil argued, as he stashed his sequined coin bag along with the new wallet. He had a fondness for the thing, despite himself. "And I cannot fathom ever forgetting making this mistake of a purchase." 

__

"It's fine," Vitto said, while rubbing faintly glowing blood and ocular fluid off the floor. "See, I got mugged in Capulet."

__

"Oh, no," said Vergil, mildly.

__

"Very scary," Vitto continued. "Big tall bright-haired foreigner drove my jeep wallet away."

__

"I don't recall mugging you in Capulet."

__

"I looked different," said Vitto. "Was in my grunge phase."

__

"Then you had it coming."

__

Vitto was about to retort when Vergil's high-strung senses fired a sudden warning; he stiffened, and Vitto froze in turn.

__

The sound of a turning lock came from the living room, along with a subtle jangle of keys.

__

"Vivi, dear!" A woman's voice warbled as the door closed, and Vitto's face twisted— in wrath, despair, resignation, then resolve, all in the span of a second. "Are you there? Hello?"

__

He stood, slowly, laid the bottle quietly onto the table, and strode towards his fate like the Nietzschean Ubermensch.

__

"Evening, mom," his despondent voice came through the wall. He barely even sounded like himself.

__

"Honey!" she said joyfully, a tinkling, charming, utterly _sincere_ sound. There was the sound of kisses, one on each cheek as customary; Fortunans were as physical as they were prudish, even men hugged as a casual greeting, and for all that Vitto was downright exuberant by Vergil's measure he was rather touch-averse and standoffish by local standards.

__

Vergil rose to his feet and then fell back onto the chair. Predictably, that hemorrhagic damage was still running its course, because that was simply how Vergil's luck went.

__

"Donna Iolanthe called me just now, said you were having some sort of electrical malfunction," the woman blathered on. "She sounded so frightened! So of course I _hopped_ into a taxi and came _straight_ here—" 

__

She spoke with the cadence of a trained thespian, her voice a perfect mix of chiding love and heartfelt concern, and Vergil was struck by sudden inspiration.

__

He took stock of himself— half-dried stains from blood and fluids, one damaged glove and nothing else— and partially unsheathed Yamato for a quick peek at his own face: more dried and hastily cleaned blood but— he rubbed out the caked trails under his nose— no visible wounds. 

__

It would do. He sheathed Yamato, tied his black bandanna on, then pulled his hood low over his face. Worst came to worst, he would absolutely blame his magically induced stroke.

__

He stood carefully, ensured he could stay on his feet, then tied the unfortunately conspicuous Yamato under his coat with a silent apology. After a second of contemplation, he pulled his often unused Caliburn from his back and held it in both hands, pointing down.

__

"I'd rather you didn't, mom, it's kind of a mess," Vitto was telling his mother, subdued, when a grim, hooded, blood-spattered Knight of the Order solemnly strode out of his kitchen.

__

The effect of this apparition was immediate on his mother— she gasped and put a hand to her chest, open-mouthed. Vitto, who'd had his back to the kitchen, turned around in horror and then shifted his face through a variety of emotional configurations before settling onto confusion.

__

"Martinelli," Vergil intoned ominously, channeling Arkham to the best of his ability. "You claimed our _privacy_ was ensured."

__

"Um," Vitto seemed rather bewildered by this turn of events. "I... thought it was...?"

__

"This _conversation_ will resume on a different _occasion_ ," he continued, flatly threatening. "We expect greater _discretion_." Vergil turned his hood slowly towards the woman, her eyes averted and her hands piously joined even as she smelled of giddy excitement. "From _all_ parties."

__

"Um, yes— ......sir," Vitto mumbled uncertainly, while his mother curtsied humbly and Vergil picked his way through the books. 

__

Just as he walked past the woman, Vergil stopped, theatrically, and turned— slowly, for effect, and also because he still had blood in his ears and it was threatening to spill.

__

"And do _something_ ," he sneered contemptuously, "about these _chemical fumes_. Our material... is _delicate_."

__

"Of... course," Vitto said dumbly.

__

With a slow nod, Vergil resumed his path, then finally made his way out the door.

__

Then he opened a path into the unoccupied apartment next door and laid on the dusty parquet, half listening as Vitto stammered that, uh, he was being evaluated, for, uh, his suitability to take part in a project, it was classified, no, everything was classified, if he told her he would definitely be unsuitable, no, he would not, no—

__

After an hour-long nap, the woman left and the two resumed their work, with Isobella's schedule onto the cleaned table alongside a few cotton swabs.

__

"I thought you were just going to slip out with, you know," Vitto made vague sword-slashing movements.

__

Vergil paused in the middle of digging a stubborn clot out of his ear.

__

"Have I mentioned I have a magical idiot in my hindbrain?" he said, eventually.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil, browsing the ugly tactical gear store: It would be such a tragedy if the legions of hell that have persistently dogged my heels just so happened to trash this humble establishment and its quality wares


	24. Sonnet left unfinished

Vitto had very emphatically ordered Vergil back to shower and change before they were to spend an evening by a sickbed. In normal circumstances this would hardly count as a delay, since Vergil could cut his way through the veil itself, and step out in the convenient little alley three houses down from his landlady.

He did not account for said landlady.

Oh, he _thought_ he'd had. By not stepping out directly into his rented room, which he was sure by now she could spy into through methods unknown, not to mention the possibility of being found inside despite not having been spotted on his way in (an issue once raised and sidestepped only by means of maintaining a most definitely feigned air of bewilderment for the duration of supper).

Instead, he walked into the kitchen on his way to the back door only to find Miss Pascalini standing poised in his way, a plate of steaming dinner in her hands.

She set it very pointedly down on the table, her eyes flashing.

"We need to talk," she said.

This woman was made for being bewildered at. 

"Ma'am, I have somewhere to be," he said. 

"And you're going to be there with a _full_ stomach. Now sit!" She snapped, and Vergil obeyed slowly and with great care and confusion.

He wasn't quite sure when he'd started calling her Ma'am— he'd intended to avoid all human contact to begin with— but at some point in the last year he'd found his meager laundry regularly washed and pressed with absolute perfection, and after that it just came naturally. 

"Now I don't go digging around people's business," she'd started, looming over the table and halfway to Vergil like a dour schoolmarm, "but if people spill _their_ business on _my_ business then I gotta put my foot down— and _you_ , sir, are _definitely_ skulking about on _some_ business."

"Ma'am," said Vergil, respectfully, not about to let on that his mind was a blank.

"Don't you _ma'am_ me, young man!" She snapped, sparing Vergil from figuring out words. "You're gone entire nights and then you come back and pretend you slept when you did _not_ ," her nostrils flared, "and I don't know which window you sneak out of yet, but I know when I was the one to touch the door last and I'm _always_ the one who did it last, and that means you are _not_ ," her eyes flashed, "walking out the door like a _respectable young man_."

Oh, for fuck's sake. Was she inspecting his room at three in the morning? No wonder her rent came in cheap, how was one to avoid her scrutiny?

"Ma'am, if you wish me to vacate your room—" Vergil started, but stopped at her absolutely thunderous look.

"Did I say that?" she snapped.

"Ma'am—"

"Did I use _any_ of those words?" she asked again, threateningly.

"You did not, but—"

" _Then don't be putting words in my mouth, mister!_ " She smacked the table, rattling one single spoon. Somehow Vergil felt cowed. "I don't take with speaking sideways, if I want you out I'll toss you out. What I _want_ ," she threw her shoulders back, made herself perhaps a millimeter taller, "is to know _what_ I have in my home, so I know if you _are_ getting tossed out. Now spit it, mister!"

"I," Vergil stuttered.

"And eat your dinner," she added, a little calmer.

"Uh— thank you," Vergil mumbled, reaching for the cutlery. His plate was piled to the approximate size of Lamina Peak with fettuccine in mushroom sauce, garnished with cherry tomatoes, quail eggs and basil leaves, plus grilled chicken breast cut into strips, all very artfully arranged. There was ruffly lettuce in a side bowl, quince jam in another, a freshly opened bottle of olive oil, and an entire jar of lemonade that smelled like it was comprised of ninety-percent lemon zest and ten-percent sugar.

Dear god. She meant business.

He chewed slowly, buying time to figure out an explanation— which she had to know he was doing. Awkward. But... there was no way he could tell her _I don't go out the door because I rip a path through the fabric of reality_ , and that meant he could only hope to deflect _that_ particular matter.

He sighed deeply, closed his eyes, wrapped himself in bubbling warmth. Gazed at Nero's distant glow, drew strength from its light. From his photo, in his jeep, in his pocket.

He could do it. He could spin a spinster. 

"I am a devil hunter," he said, laying a brooding glare onto his pasta as thickly as he'd laid the oil.

"Savior give me the strength to not _throttle_ you, you nincompoop—" she threw her hands up, but Vergil plowed bravely on. 

"I was one _before_ I came to this island," he continued, irritated and a little embarrassed that his brooding hadn't worked. "And I made a name for myself. The demons, they—" he tried the brooding glare again, "—they chase me, sometimes. Target me specifically. I feel safer if I... do the rounds."

"Oh, you silly boy," she rolled her eyes with a heavy sigh, although Vergil guessed she was a little moved— by the brooding, maybe. "That's what the Knights are for! The knights _on duty_ ," she added, before Vergil could voice the obvious quip. "Don't you do evening patrol thrice a week? Let the other lads earn their keep. They get to sleep when you're on duty, after all."

"They are not _me,_ " Vergil said, allowing his pride to bleed into his voice. "It's simply not the same, ma'am. And..." He swirled his glass, watching the inch-thick layer of sugar in its bottom rise and swirl like a lemony snow globe. "I do sleep, in those evenings. I just..." his voice lowered to a mumble, despite himself, "...do it on higher places."

"What, on trees? And roofs?" she asked, eyebrows raised. "That can't be comfortable."

He shrugged a shoulder. Mostly he napped in Isobella's cell, or the rafters over it— but he'd done enough sleeping on trees and grates that bringing it up was hitting him harder than expected.

He took a sip of his lemonade and dug back into his food, hoping to avoid further questioning. It was good food, and wasting it would be an insult. Miss Pascalini cooked like it was her only joy in life, and even his generally diminished appetite was appeased by her richly seasoned fare. 

The plate was empty all too soon.

"Thank you for the meal, Ma'am," Vergil said, pushing his chair back. "But I must be on my way."

"I don't expect you'll be back at a _proper_ hour, will you?" Miss Pascalini asked, dryly.

Vergil hesitated. "I make no promises," he said at last, and departed to the sound of her long-suffering sigh.

###

Vitto was standing cross-armed in his living room in a manner entirely too reminiscent of Miss Pascalini.

"Did you have another episode?" he asked immediately.

"I wish," Vergil mumbled, ignoring Vitto's eye-roll. "My landlady, Miss Pascalini, decided she had questions about my overnight adventures."

"Is she kicking you out?" 

"Not yet, no," Vergil shrugged his cloak off, draped it on his elbow. "Although she may be considering the possibility."

"Well, you can crash here if she does," Vitto offered, as he did his final bag check.

"Hell no," Vergil said automatically, slicing the air— and then they were stepping into the cell.

Vitto did his usual thing where he stumbled out of Vergil's grip and looked ready to die. Vergil left him to it; there were tools to bring down from the rafters, books and notes, Vitto's bedroll, so many odds and ends.

They raised their setup around Isobella in quiet companionship. The tripod and its camping lamp were set first, Vitto's flashlight long rendered obsolete; the saline bag, pilfered from Vitto's college, was to hang from the hook by the door. Two camp-chairs came next, acquired for the long hours of sitting by the cot— although Vergil still had a preference for the floor—, and their matching fold-out table now bore a great many different bottles and solutions for their patient's growing kit. Stashed half under the table was a foam box for the more delicate, temperature-sensitive material, half-buried under ice from Vitto's fridge. 

Once everything was in place, Vitto inserted the IV needle and administered Isobella's cocktail for the evening: loads and loads of fiddly little liquids in fiddly little amounts, some injected via the saline tube, others dripped under her tongue, topped off with one single, careful drop of his blood— bright unreal scarlet in the gloom, brimming with the unexplainable excess of magic he'd been all but marinating in for the last few months. 

They watched breathlessly for a few seconds, but her breath and heartbeat remained steady. 

That concern allayed, Vitto took off his gloves and shoes, arranged the bedroll, and was soon out cold, leaving Vergil to his usual first watch. He didn't even remind Vergil to wake him for the switch— a sure sign that _his_ latest drop of Vergil's blood was losing its effect.

Well, a full watch it would be. Vergil tugged the camp chair closer to the cot, made himself somewhat comfortable. Gazed down upon their clandestine patient.

Isobella was unrecognizable.

...in both meanings of the sentence, Vergil thought to himself, bitterly. Vitto had once said her recovery would take years, and he could see them stretch before him with greater clarity now. Where she had been ghoulish and inhumanly hideous before, unreal even as she'd laid before his eyes, she was now simply— ugly. No longer a mottled, dry mummy, and he was duly relieved for her sake; but her bones still jutted, her skin was the shade of curdled milk, and her muscles bunched under half-healed skin in unnatural shapes. Atrophied, Vitto had said. Even the ones on her face.

Her gums had healed, finally, but they did so around crooked, protuberant teeth; and as her flesh recovered a semblance of flexibility, her mouth had loosened from its frozen rictus to cover them partway. She looked— she looked like— like a twisted, simian _and_ fish-like version of herself; a corruption, faintly revolting. Vergil always arranged the lamp with care, because any misplaced shadow could turn her face from malnourished yet smooth into a gut-curdling rendition of a dead nonagenarian, and he wished to focus on her palpably improved health instead.

At least the nuns had no similar struggle, as he'd observed from his afternoons skulking in the rafters; to them, Isobella's ongoing recovery was unexplainable, and therefore a miracle.

She was granted special treatment now, her cell cleaned with greater attention, her cot wrapped in brand-new linens. She still didn't rate _clothes_ , apparently, but she rated a different set of nuns for her care, a lively bunch of early middle-agers who ooh-ed and aah-ed breathlessly as they took stock of Isobella's physical changes. They curtsied on their way in and out, spoke in respectful whispers, washed and cleaned her with great ritualistic solemnity— even her nethers, through which Isobella had been, for obvious reasons, evacuating slightly more _substantial_ materials. They'd even replaced the paper label on her door with an ugly, rusted iron object hanging off-center.

Sister Brava's acidic wrath was an unfortunate loss, but more than worth the price of getting Sister Flora's vaguely sociopathic incompetence away from their patient. And although the new group was too disciplined to gossip on the job, Vergil still kept careful track of their poorly disguised reactions— for his amusement, but also in expectation of the best possible opportunity to knock the iron thing off the door. 

He could only do it once, and he wanted the occasion to hold maximum symbolic value. 

Vergil contemplated the possibilities as he gave Isobella a towel bath, carefully rubbed her teeth and gums, then massaged her feet. He didn't really know what he was doing regarding her feet, but the way they lay stiff and pointed and bumpy and _curved_ inward filled him with an awful, helpless kind of anxiety; they were by far the most obviously atrophied part of her, grotesque and misshapen. They had to be causing her pain, assuming she could feel them at all.

He had yet to see her move her legs, even during her worst, most violent deliriums. Her head, yes; her arms, feebly. Her legs...

Vergil heated a water bottle to lay against the soles of her feet, then sat down on the floor with a weary sigh. He rested his back against the cot, scooted so that he could check her face and the rise of her chest with a turn of his head; satisfied with his spot, he settled back and picked up their current book.

About an hour into his even recitation, Isobella began to stir. It was no longer unusual for her to do so— to shake her head in turmoil, at times begging, at times threatening— always an hour after her treatment started. The fits were short; only a few minutes of babbling at most, and Vergil had learned to tune them out.

For his own sanity. There were only so many times he could bear to hear her insist, plaintively, that _Vergil is real, he does exist, and he's going to be—_

He sighed, shook his head. Skipped ahead to the next poem. 

" _I make verses as if crying_  
_In disillusion... in desolation..._  
_Lower this book, if at this time_  
_Hast no reasons for lamentation._ "




Well, he had plenty. The tell-tale shuffle of Bella's linens prefaced her anguished moan; "Let me go," she said, as Vergil pressed his eyes shut, "let me out— when he's back, he'll—"

Vergil shoved his sympathetic anxiety further down and resumed.

" _My verse is blood. Fervent spasm..._  
_Paltry sorrow... pointless grief..._  
_Hurts my veins. Heated and bitter,_  
_Falls from my heart, drip by drip._ "




"Vergil!" she cried out, her blanket weakly tugging where it was caught under his back. He shifted to allow it freedom. It was good for her to move. 

" _And in these verses of hoarse anguish,_  
_Thus life dribbles down from my lips,_  
_Leaving sourness in its wake—_ "




"Is that you?" Isobella cried again, her hand seeking feebly, patting at his shoulder, at his head, clutching weakly at his hair. "Vergil— is that _you?_ "

Vergil flung the book away without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _— I make verses as if I'm dying._
> 
> > BANDEIRA, Manuel, _Desencanto_ ; A cinza das horas, Teresópolis, 1917 AD. Translated by me.


	25. Tune left unplayed

Isobella stared into nothing, her bulging eyes wide and terrified and unfocused, her grasping hand sliding pathetically from Vergil's head when he turned around.

"Is that—" she asked, weakly, pawing blindly at the bed, "is that you— Vergil— are you—"

He should wake Vitto, he really, really should. But Vergil rose to his knees instead, grasped Isobella's weak hands and leaned down close to her, to her face, creased with fear and confusion and deep shadows.

"I'm here," he whispered, his blood thudding thick in his veins. "It's me, Isobella, I'm—"

" _Vergil_ ," she sobbed— and then she started shaking, shivering, sudden and almost as violent as a seizure; her fingers tried and failed to squeeze around his, her bloodless, paper-thin nails bending where she tried to dig them in. "Save me— _save me, Vergil—_ "

She was... crying, wasting precious fluids her body could barely afford, and. She never cried. Isobella had never once cried, and she had never once asked for help of any sort, not even when under attack, not even when in mortal danger. Isobella _never_ — 

" _No!_ " She cried suddenly, her sobs intensifying, arms raising feebly to search her surroundings. "Don't leave me— _where are you?_ "

"Bella?" Vergil asked, carefully. Was she delirious, after all? But she calmed at the sound of his voice, even relaxing into her cot, her shivers abating minutely.

"...you're not a dream, are you?" she asked, weak, terrified.

"No," Vergil said, softly. "I'm here. I'm back."

She started sobbing again, in great wracking hiccups, and Vergil squeezed her hand, carefully, caressed her arms, touched her face. Made sure Isobella could feel him when not hearing him, since she was, apparently, _blind_. 

"Oh, Isobella," he whispered, hollow and heart-sore, lowering his head carefully to her chest. It was a frightening concept, to lay that much weight onto her; even as he allowed her uncertain, awkward hands to tug him down, he tensed his neck to spare her ribs undue pressure.

"I should have gone with you," she said, shakily, painfully.

" _No,_ " Vergil blurted out, and the ribs under his ear spasmed, her weak fingers dug feebly into his hair; she was crying harder, broken and wretched as Vergil slipped away from her grasp— but he shifted up instead, to her head, touched her cheek with his own. 

"My path was a fool's path," he whispered into her ear. "There was nothing at the end of that road, Bella— nothing, nothing at all, just..." he swallowed, nuzzled her, held back his own tears. "Shame, lies, and a deep, dark abyss. I should have stayed... I should have never left."

Her sobs faded into weak little hitches, shaky sighs. Her fingers pawed awkwardly at his back, her arm muscles too atrophied to bend any further up, to cling to him or to touch his head. He thought to slide back down the cot, let her play with his hair like she used to— but she let out such a terrified little mewl when he pulled away, he gave up on the spot.

"Please be real," she said weakly, as he laid his head back down by hers. 

"I'm real," he promised, and remained faithfully still— knelt by the cot, awkwardly bent— until her shivers faded and her breath evened.

It took but a few minutes. 

Vergil sat on his heels and straightened his back in shameful relief. Five minutes, maybe— less even than her usual delirious fits— but she'd been conscious. She'd been herself.

She'd been a _crushed and pathetic_ version of herself.

He flopped back against the cot, pinched the bridge of his nose, then noticed with a lurch that Vitto was sitting wide-awake amid his blankets.

"Yes, I heard it all," he said, rubbing his eyes before crawling up to the cot and fetching his notepad from the table. "It's okay to be mushy."

"Sorry," Vergil mumbled. He was anxious, ashamed, and strangely fascinated by a spot on the floor. 

"For what?" Vitto asked absently, his eyes focused on his notes. "Being mushy?"

"I didn't wake you," he admitted. His throat felt as if plugged by a fistful of ice cubes.

"Well, I woke up anyway, no harm done," Vitto mumbled distractedly, scribbling on his pad.

"I—" Vergil felt inexplicably furious. "I didn't _want_ to wake you!" he snapped, glaring at Vitto, at his stupid mild look of patient confusion. "I _knew_ I should have but I, I—"

Vittorino had the audacity to roll his eyes. 

" _Savior_ , you're such a goody two-shoes," he muttered to himself— and Vergil, whose list of sins grew longer every time he took a fresh look into his past, could only sputter in disbelief. "Do you want an argument? Do you want to be told off? Well, sir, that was a dick move, I _say!_ " He straightened his back and wiggled his pen at Vergil, flaring his nostrils in mockery. "I _say_ , young sir! A dick move that was _no big deal_ , because I woke up _anyway—_ "

"I _robbed_ you!" Vergil insisted; Vitto's lack of reaction, and his own fury over it, were making him feel slightly crazy. "You could have talked to her but—"

"Nah," Vitto shook his head calmly, returning to his pad.

"N... _nah?_ " Vergil echoed, weakly.

"She wasn't up for it," Vitto continued, perfectly calm. "She was conscious but only just, and could barely handle a conversation with _you_. A second person would have made things worse."

"But— she's your _sister!_ " Vergil said, emphatically— Vitto _had_ to understand— 

"She's also my patient," Vitto said, still perfectly unflapped, bed-head and all. "And her well-being is my priority. _Think_ , Vergil— last she remembers, you knew nothing of me, and I knew very little of you. Seeing the two of us together would only cause confusion. She was upset enough."

Vergil stared at him, dizzy, lost and not a little uneasy, and Vitto studied him back before cracking a small smile. 

"You miss your sibling, right?" he asked, and Vergil was caught off-guard by his own full-body flinch. Vitto chuckled, the absolute jerk. "You mentioned one. Remember? Back on our first conversation." He paused, and then shook his head. "Sorry for dredging it up. Talking to patients was never my—"

"He's fine," Vergil blurted out.

"Huh?" Vitto looked surprised, for once.

"He's— I presumed him dead, and he presumed me dead, but we both survived. My. My brother and I."

"Oh," Vitto said. "I'm— glad—"

"We're estranged," Vergil said, quickly. 

"That's—"

"I need air," he said, stumbling to his feet, fingers clenching around Yamato.

The air inside Isobella's cell was no longer fetid and still. For many long months now it had been wild and charged, heady with thick magic and the fresh ozone of a recent storm. But Vergil only managed to unclench his throat after stumbling out of his portal and under the open sky.

###

Oh.

He hadn't meant to come _here_ of all places... but it would be a lie to claim its memory had not laid heavy on his mind.

The square was as still and empty as it had been back then, down to the single lonely knight standing guard, unobtrusive in his white uniform amid white tiles and marble. The old basin at its center looked mildly cleaner, its mosaic shards brighter and more colorful, and the statue of the Savior— perched at one end right above the spout, his sword imperiously pointed at the gushing water— was as tacky and out of place as it had been that night, an obvious late addition to the ancient fountain.

But the place felt different, somehow. Hostile, even. Vergil eyed the aged benches, the cobblestones, the foliage, approached the fountain slowly. He could almost spot Isobella's curled body in the gloom, wrapped gigglingly around the statue's legs, heedless of his presence as he puttered about the basin in search of stray secrets. Or hear her voice, slurring to the statue, the prayer of a drunk teenager out past her curfew.

_Give me a sign, or give me death._

He winced, shook his head. No, no, it was all wrong. This had been their plaza, their fountain, his and Isobella's— what had changed? Why was it so alien and eerie? It had been so bright and alive— why, then, did it feel so dead?

"They fixed it," said a vaguely familiar voice. The knight, apparently; Vergil glanced back long enough to confirm it, and the fact that the man had left his post to approach him.

The knight stood by the basin as well, and they contemplated it together for a solemn moment.

"...so they have," Vergil murmured, at last. No tune accompanied the backdrop of running water; even the stray droplets hit the tiles in a different beat.

Their off-key waltz was gone.

"It's good to see you back," said the Knight, again. "A few years too late, sadly. What kept you?"

It was three in the morning, and Vergil had his hood drawn low, but he wasn't surprised at being recognized; he had, after all, recognized the lonely guard in turn.

"Foolish endeavors," he answered. "Pointless pursuits. Unimportant, every single one of them."

"They put her in the Chantry, you know."

"I know," said Vergil.

"And the baby," he continued. "He's in the orphanage, now."

"I know," Vergil repeated.

The silence resumed.

"So you're biding your time, then?" asked the Knight.

Vergil took his eyes off the fountain, then, looked the Knight in the face for the first time. The man was grim, scarred and middle-aged, with steady, level eyes.

"I expected some harsh judgment," Vergil admitted. 

"It's obvious," said the Knight. "If you didn't care, you wouldn't be here. But it's been almost a year since I first heard of the _blond foreigner_ and you haven't made a move, so you've got to be waiting for something."

"In a way," said Vergil.

"Are you saving up? Kids can be costly."

Vergil let out a small, surprised laugh. He had little he cared to spend his money on, in this blighted island; as a result he _had_ amassed a substantial amount of funds, without meaning to. "I have, at that," he said, with amusement.

"And the girl?" the Knight asked. "Will you be petitioning for her release?"

Vergil glanced at him in renewed surprise— then, despite himself, at the dark sky where the Oracularium would have loomed, were it not obscured by the lights and buildings of the business district. 

"I— I can? Do that?"

"You can _try_ ," said the Knight, with a shrug. "You have a case. She's the mother of your son, after all." 

( _Of his— **his—** )_

__

Vergil clenched his fists, took a few steady breaths to quell his quivering soul, to center himself in his body. Later. _Later_.

__

"I thought Vittorino tried—" he mumbled through uncertain lips.

__

The Knight's gaze softened very slightly. 

__

"The Martinelli Family has some pull," he said. "But the _family_ means the father and no one else. If the head of the house says no, then the two sons put together couldn't squeeze out a yes. You, though... you'd be coming at it from a different angle." The Knight cocked his head, thoughtfully. "I thought that was what you were going for— building up a reputation, shoring up your case. Weren't you going to help her?"

__

"Well— yes," Vergil said, still blinking off the barely interrupted Nero Episode. "But I thought..."

__

He gazed at the vague dark nothing that would have been the Oracularium, on a clear day.

__

"I thought I'd be kidnapping her," he said, with a small rueful laugh. It had to sound completely absurd, to one who knew nothing of his powers.

__

The Knight did join in his laughter. "Oh, it wouldn't work," he said, softly. "I should know. But—" the man brushed Vergil off before he thought to pursue that last comment, "as I said, you have a case. A _claim_. And you've been a model foreigner, keeping out of sight, not causing trouble. Everyone praises your bladework. Knights who badmouth you are known assholes. Being foreign at all is a liability, but in these circumstances, it could be a boon."

__

"I don't see it," Vergil admitted.

__

"People will gossip," he said. "It'll be the talk of the land. And you've been good. You're being promoted, right? That's big," he nodded to himself. "That's _very_ big. If your petition is denied it'll look bad. And what's more— _Signore_ Martinelli can deny his daughter's hand, but a Chantry girl is no longer of her family. If he meddles, then he's setting a precedence for his son. Their tiff is its own gossip."

__

"So... tradition would be less in _his_ favor than in ours," Vergil mused. "I'll have to study this very carefully."

__

The Knight nodded. "You do that," he said. "And stay as you were. Keep your head down, build a good reputation. Everyone knows foreigners are blond, so your hair is blond. Before they heard of you, you didn't exist. No one will connect you with the pale kid born before you were known. If they do," the man's eyes hardened, "make your move at once. There's plenty of reasons why you would not know, but once you officially do, you need to ride the wave."

__

"Understood," said Vergil. "And thank you. This has been a pleasant surprise."

__

"Likewise," the Knight said, offering a hand. Vergil took it without hesitation. "The name's Paolo," he said.

__

"Paolo," Vergil repeated. "I'm Vergil."

__

They shook, and Vergil turned around, heart much lightened, to find the nearest empty alley—

__

"Vergil," Paolo called after him; and when Vergil turned to listen, he leaned in. "Few frequent the orphanage and the Order's halls both. But the Supreme Commander, Tridentino de Nicene, is one of them."

__

Vergil stiffened. The Supreme Commander of the Knights of the Order— he had to be in on at least _some_ of the Order's scheming, if not all of it. Had he miscalculated? Were the high echelons of the church _already_ aware of...?

__

But Paolo laid a quelling hand on his elbow, snapping him out of his thoughts.

__

"The Commander is a good man," he said, gently, to Vergil's surprise. "His deeds speak for him. He would take your side, as he took mine."

__

Vergil unlocked his jaw with some effort. "I—" he stuttered, ice in his veins, "the Conclave, it's—"

__

" _Trash_ ," Paolo whipped a hand, brusque and decisive. "I know. Sanctus is trash, Bonifacius is trash, Fidelius is trash, Gerontius is trash, Benedictus is spineless trash, it's all trash at that table, and they did their damnest to _watch me die_." His hand tightened and then loosened around Vergil's arm, and he stepped back. "You should make your own judgment. But he gave me— this—"

__

Paolo's eyes gazed around himself, at the silent plaza, glittering under his hood.

__

"This beat, you mean?" Vergil asked, incredulous. "Empty, dead of night? Heart of the city, away from—"

__

Vergil got it, at last, when a small smile spread across Paolo's scarred face.

__

"From _danger_ ," he completed softly. "Come morning I get to take my girl to school, and to sleep until she's out. I get to be a proper father before her bedtime."

__

"Oh," Vergil mumbled, dumbly.

__

"If he lets you down, I _will_ take your side over his," Paolo hissed. "But he has my trust, for what it's worth."

__

Vergil studied the man before him, the face scarred and creased and aged before its time, the one eye which seemed to not move quite right in its subtly misshapen socket.

__

"I will strike him down," he said, at last, "if he fails to correspond to even half of it."

__

Paolo nodded solemnly, accepting the praise for what it was, then bowed, his hands joined palm over fist; the Order's salute. Vergil returned it, before finally continuing on his way. And the first thing he did, when he stepped back into Isobella's cell, was to ask:

__

"Were you aware that I could submit _my own petition_ for Isobella's release?"

__

Vitto's face went from confusion, to consideration, to gleeful realization.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: You surely hate me for denying you the opportunity to talk to your sibling for the first time in years  
> Vitto: That's adorable, that you're projecting you missing your brother on me like that  
> Vergil: whoops look at my wrist i gotta go bye


	26. The weight of a claim

Vitto judged the topic important enough to merit wrapping up treatment for the night, against Vergil's protests.

"You're free for the afternoon, aren't you?" he said, pointedly, as he gathered their effects for storage. "It'll more than make up for this couple of hours."

"Every minute counts!" Vergil argued back, aghast. "I don't see why it matters whether we discuss the petitioning here or in your kitchen—"

"Vergil, look at me," Vitto said, snapping his fingers and glaring back at Vergil's thunderous frown. "Look at me, you nincompoop. _You are going to cry._ "

"I'm not— it's not _crying_!" Vergil stammered, embarrassment winning out over his anger. "It's—" 

"You are going to cry your eyes out, _literally_ , with your dumb holy tears you can't control, and there's no way we can wash this floor fast enough to keep the sisters from noticing."

"I hate you," Vergil hissed, even as he joined in on the dismantling.

"You hate me because I'm right," Vitto said, with a smug little shrug.

" _Exactly_ ," Vergil snapped. "Now give me that chair, I'll put it away— just— just pick up the stuff you're actually taking back and leave the rest to me. Heartless bastard," he mumbled under his breath, as he sliced a path into the alcove above their heads. After months upon months of mundane usage, the skill had rather lost some of its mystique. 

Vitto still wheezed and buckled after crossing the passage on their way out, though— which was its own argument in favor of this conversation, and Exhibit One of many for why Isobella was still in her hell. Vitto had a set of pills he took before the trips, and a fast-acting concoction he took after them, and they alleviated the after-effects of his passage— but, by his own admission, the trip itself remained a deeply disorienting and unpleasant experience, physically and mentally overwhelming. 

The madman had gone so far as to track the physical toll it took on him, by abstaining from renewing his single drop of Vergil's blood for almost a whole month. It took an entire vial for him to recover (and he was nauseous and dizzy for days, an unforeseen side-effect), and all it did was confirm what they'd already known: Isobella was in no state to handle the trip, and would not be for a long, long time. 

"It's still a good last resort," Vitto said, as they shuffled papers and notes across the table. "So long as we have a room equipped for her arrival, we can head off any complications. It'll set her health back, but just being out of there will more than make up for it."

"But not anytime soon," Vergil said, grimly. Vitto's kitchen at three in the morning was strange and uncomfortable, much like the fountain plaza had been, and it was not helping his mood.

Vitto sighed. "No, not at all," he lamented. "But at least with the petition, we'll have an excuse to, say, start setting up an infirmary for her. I'll have to look into this guy," he tapped Paolo's name on the back of his notepad, right under the still unreachable Sister Brava's, "but he spoke truth: if you petition for her release and Father objects to it, he'll have to make a case for why he should even care. If he does, then he's lending weight to my own petition, and he _will_ know that. The one uncertain component here is the Chantry itself."

"They won't want to let her go," Vergil brooded. "They think she's special, now that she's healing." He paused. "Well, she _is_ , but—"

"That's not even remotely it," Vitto said, calmly, to Vergil's annoyance. "Look at it from their angle. Isobella's a wreck. Yes, she's like, mystical now. Her recovery is a bona-fide miracle. So how come it hasn't been announced anywhere?"

Vergil stiffened, stared hard at Vitto. "The Order wants to use her," he whispered. "Fuck. _Fuck_. Of course they took notice, if—"

"Absolutely the fuck _not_ , you dramatic loon!" Vitto aimed a slap at his face with a pair of printed sheets, then missed. "Forget about— forget about your magical destiny, for _once_ in your life, by the _Savior!_ How are you such a self-centered tool, Mister Holy Blood? It's not about you, it's not even about Bella. It's about _them_!"

"Well, I don't get it!" Vergil snapped in frustration, tossing a sheet back at Vitto. "Why _would_ they not want to report an actual miracle?"

"Because— they— will look— _bad_ ," Vitto hissed at him, slowly and with wide mouth shapes, as if talking to a dim-witted child. "It'll be Santa Frederica all over again!"

"They _already_ look bad," Vergil pointed out, only for Vitto to roll his eyes.

"For you, yes! And for me!" he argued. "Maybe for all the other people who _actually_ liked a prisoner. And how many of those are there out there, do you think?" He didn't wait for Vergil to answer. "There are twelve cells in the Oracularium. One of them is unusable. They were not simultaneously filled, and the average lifespan of a prisoner is five years. So as a very vague ballpark you get two vacant cells every five years, or one every two-and-a-half years. Are you following me?"

Vergil gritted his teeth. "I'm _not_ an idiot," he snarled. Yes, put that way the evidence was obvious, but—

"For most everyone else, the women being sent to the Oracularium are just noisy floozies being sent to a cloister within _another_ cloister," Vitto continued. "As far as the entire island knows, they just sit on a big tower weaving tapestries and gossiping in a neverending stitch-and-bitch. And they are most definitely fed _and_ dressed, and afforded a minimum of dignity. Why would they _not?_ "

"But," Vergil grasped at his hair, noticed he was doing it, tried to brush it back into place. "Frederica's notes—"

"Santa Frederica's _wisdom_ ," Vitto said, contemptuously, "is constantly being recompiled from the same three-hundred-years old translation."

Vergil buried his face in his hands, then dug his fingers into his scalp. 

"So much for my petition," he choked out.

"Not at all," Vitto said, with his usual calm, because he was never done yanking Vergil around by the emotions. "You have Nero."

The entire table rattled as Vergil struggled to sit back straight and not launch himself across it.

"Do not— do _not—_ I will _NOT_ —" he strangled out, hands clenched on the seat of his chair— the chair kept trying to leave the floor— Vitto didn't mean it but he was going to KILL Vitto and the chair was rattling and splintering under his grasp and his mind was a thunderstorm and— "How _dare_ you— don't you _joke_ about— I'm not using _**m—**_ "

Vitto dumped his coffee on Vergil's face at about the same time he bit down on his tongue, but it wasn't enough. He plunged, the storm within suddenly the storm without, winds whipping either physically or metaphorically, he couldn't tell— he had to— his towering self— oh, _Nero_.

He was so beautiful, he was so small, he was fragile and— 

He couldn't fall on him, on his gentle glowing star, even if he no longer knew up from down—

Nero was— and the sky—

Was he melting? He was melting, things were stopping somehow—

He gazed at the star as he sunk, it was all he could see, all he could—

All he could see was a distant glow.

Well, that usually meant his eyeballs were busted, and Vitto was going to be a little bitch about it.

"'Ey," he mumbled through a mouthful of blood. It kept trickling back to his throat. That probably meant... yes... he was pretty sure, yes, if he thought about the matter logically, he had to be horizontal. So, basically, he was on the floor. Lying. Probably.

"Hey at you," said Vitto's voice, somewhere in his vicinity. He was doing his Doctor Voice, so the bitching was going to happen in the future instead, which was good. Vergil didn't feel quite up to being dry and witty about it.

"'Ey," he answered Vitto. There were little foosh-foosh sounds, and an antiseptic smell, and little droplets falling on his face, which was very strange, as he couldn't feel his face. He couldn't feel his face but he could feel the little drops of water that were falling on it. How was that possible? That seemed very contradictory, which consequently made it quite silly. 

So he giggled.

"'Ey," he mumbled, pushing past a strong feeling of deja-vu. "You." He quested about in his mouth for his tongue, and didn't find it. Then he wondered if he had eaten it. "Urgh," he groaned, but then remembered that the /r/ and /g/ phonemes both required the presence of a tongue. Well, that was fast, even for his regeneration. His eyes were still at it.

"Yes," said Vitto, from who knew where. "I drugged the shit out of you. I think I overdid it, too."

"Oh," Vergil mumbled in disappointment. Well, that explained the whole horizontal situation. This entire scenario had rather gotten to become entirely too common the last couple of months, with Nero being right over there and also in his soul and also everywhere and so far still and in his veins, too. "Bad," he summarized his thoughts.

He kept being drugged on the floor to stop from saying and thinking too much. That was the dumb-ass unfair thing about magic. Words were full of big and you had to bite your tongue and get a syringe full of woozy or else you started demanding what was yours and if you got started there was no way you could stop and he wanted to start and he didn't want to stop.

"It wants..................... out," he told Vitto, with supreme effort.

"What does?"

"The worrrrrd."

"Close your mouth, then." Foosh-foosh.

"But, but," Vergil raised a hand then dropped it, "but, but. But. It wants out...... _inside_ , too."

"Looks like there's no winning, then."

"Hehe," said Vergil, even though he'd meant to say a despondent _no_. "Why are you a chef."

"A what?"

"A chef," Vergil repeated. He wasn't sure why he was asking it, either. 

Vitto took one hand off the little brick he was holding up and touched his chef hat. "Oh, you mean—" he said, or Vergil assumed he did, because his mouth was also wearing a chef hat, for some reason. "The cap?"

"Yes, why are you a cap," Vergil corrected himself.

"Well, it makes me feel better, you know," Vitto explained, patiently. "When your eyes start melting all over the place. It's like my little safety blanket."

"You _baby_."

"I sure am."

"Oh, look," Vergil said, when he raised his hand again and saw it floating. "It's my hand."

"It is."

"I... can... my hand," he tried to explain. 

"It certainly is your hand."

"My eyes are _back_ , you asshole," Vergil snapped, letting his hand drop. Vitto had to be a condescending bastard even about actually good news, _fuck_. 

"Well, that's good," Vitto acquiesced. "On a scale of one to ten, how dumb do you feel?"

"Very," Vergil admitted. "What's that brick?"

"Nothing," Vitto put it down. Probably another safety blanket. "If you're smart enough to know you're dumb, you're good enough to resume business."

"You _monster_."

"So I brought up Nero when you flipped your shit," he said, rubbing blood off Vergil's face. "Remember?"

"You are an _asshole_ and I'm going to kill you someday," Vergil prophesied, solemnly. "Don't... don't... Nero. Nero is sacred."

"I promise I'm not so much as implying anything untoward," Vitto said, spraying more antiseptic on Vergil's numb face. "I'm just talking about how we can stalemate the Chantry."

"Dad liked chess," Vergil conceded. "Board games in general." He amended. "We had lots."

"That's very sweet," said Vitto, kindly. "So the Chantry doesn't want to look bad, right?"

"Right," said Vergil, and then, suddenly, his mind crystallized in rage. "Those— those— shameless lying _bitches_ —"

He pushed himself up in a heave and almost headbutted Vitto in the process. 

"I can't believe this— I can't _accept_ this!" he snarled to the swaying room. "Disgusting— _torturers_ — pretending to be—"

"Shhh," Vitto said, from behind his medical mask, and sprayed him with great solemnity. "They don't know that you know. Knowledge is—"

"Don't—"

" _Power._ " Foosh-foosh.

"You don't know so I'm not holding this against you, but _shut up_." Vergil squeezed his eyes shut, blinked until he could focus. 

The kitchen was an upturned mess. What little furnishings weren't bolted to the walls were toppled over, and their notes were scattered all over the place, along with his coffee milk. For a blessing Vitto swore by waterproof pens, but this was still...

"Mrrgh," he grumbled to himself, pointlessly, brushed his hair out of his eyes with a frustrated palm. "I'm sorry." 

"Just help me clean later," Vitto said, finally putting his accursed spray bottle down. "Have you got it out of your system?"

"Your drugs? No," Vergil said— he was definitely not getting to his feet for a good ten minutes. "My anger? Also no. But needs must. Nero can be used against the Chantry, you said."

" _Savior_ , that sounds awful," Vitto mumbled, almost awed. "We're not _using_ him, by the holy blood, no wonder you flipped your shit. He just needs to _exist_ , you drama-queen."

Well, that was. That was. That sure was making the doping rear back with a vengeance. 

"Oh," Vergil said, pathetically.

"You petitioning for a woman you didn't get to wed is one thing," Vitto continued, as Vergil's elbows began to buckle under the weight of his torso. "But for the mother of— well— forbidden words? That's a whole another kettle of tea. Separating a mother from their child is a big taboo, and plausible deniability is all that matters." 

Plausible deniability. Nero wasn't plausible— for anyone, anyone that wasn't _him_.

"So let's say— first you have Nero with you," Vitto preemptively sprayed Vergil's face. "Then you petition for Isobella as the mother. Your claim holds weight for obvious reasons, but you also have _proof_ she's the mother, because Nero was found in a scarf that can be traced to _my_ mother. It doesn't even matter whether or not Father intervenes, at this point; if they can't prove she's _not_ the mother, she couldn't stay hidden if she _wanted_ to. She'll be expected to provide a statement, if only to legally put her name in Nero's birth certificate, and you'll have a right to contest any documentation the Chantry provides. You can demand her presence in the proceedings. At which point they'll have to either produce her, or pretend she's dead. _Neither of those will look good on them_. Do you get me? Vergil?"

Vergil buried his face between his knees. "What the _shit_ did you put me under?" He asked.

"Uh, six milligrams diazepam, sorry," Vitto confessed. "In my defense that was your first Angry Episode since you started leaking magic, and I panicked."

"Yeah, okay, fair," Vergil mumbled, even though he strongly believed otherwise. Oh, goody, he was getting better at lying. "So if they pretend she's dead, we— we just kidnap her, right?"

"Exactly!" Vitto sprayed his hair for no reason. "And as an extra I can just bring up my list of dead prisoners somewhere public. If it gets the people talking, they can't pretend nothing is happening."

"D'you think they'll execute the hags," Vergil mumbled thickly. 

"We're not _that_ backwards," Vitto protested.

"Pity."

Vitto did make a concerted effort to cheer him up, with tales of how he was most definitely going to trick the Order into having no choice but admitting that something fishy was going on with the Oracularium, and how that would be the perfect time to bring up Santa Frederica's original writings. It all turned to mush in Vergil's sedated brain. Six milligrams, really. That was like double his usual dose. Could demons die of overdose?

At last he was able to stagger into Vitto's undersized shower and, most importantly, stagger out. He was even steady on his feet by the time he was dressed, and found to his surprise that it wasn't even four yet.

"If you said anything important between the six milligrams of diazepam and now, I don't recall it," he said right away as he returned to the kitchen.

"We'll go back over it later," said Vitto, as he spread papers across the counter to dry. "What do you say about photocopying all of this? We can store it in Bella's attic as a backup."

Vergil considered the sheaves of paper scattered under cabinets that Vitto hadn't yet gone through. "It might be wise," he conceded, then stood in place, wondering what he'd come back to the kitchen for.

"Why don't you go home and appease your landlady?" Vitto suggested, just as Vergil recalled he was supposed to help. "You could pretend you're sauced. That's a normal thing normal people do."

Vergil immediately decided Vitto could handle his housekeeping. "Once Nero is safe, your life is _over_ ," he spat, bitterly, turning around in search of some open space.

"Sure, whatever," said Vitto at his back, half-muffled by the low-key hum of his open gate. "And congrats on your promotion."

"It's not until _ten!_ " Vergil shouted, before storming off.

"Go to _sleep!_ " Vitto shouted back, right as the gate closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vitto: So if we follow this simple five step plan (under construction) the chantry will have no choice but to either look bad or look extremely bad. You follow?  
> Vergil: (doesn't answer because he took an extremely mild intravenous dose of valium and is tripping hardcore)


	27. The weight of a chain

For the first time in his recollection, Vergil awoke to the sound of Miss Pascallini knocking on his door; it was a quarter to seven, according to her demanding calls, and she was, apparently, worried by his uncharacteristic lateness.

The whole experience was jarring and surprisingly unpleasant, and he immediately resolved to never sleep again. 

"Oh, _Savior!_ " she swore, as he stepped out into the corridor in his sleep shirt and a crooked robe, his dress uniform draped over an arm. "It happened. I knew it would! You've taken ill— all these long nights outdoors!"

"No," he said, blinking blearily down at the stumpy woman. Did he look that bad? He'd showered at Vitto's and changed before lying down, even. 

He thumbed Yamato out of her scabbard, but the woman pushed him back into his room before he could get a good look at himself.

"You have an _actual_ mirror in there, boy!" She snapped, pushing him none-too-gently towards the item in question, and he humored her with a look.

He looked like Dante. 

Or rather, he looked like Dante had after their first fight on the tower. Pale lips, swollen eyes, plastered wet hair, an air of vaguely betrayed confusion. Even the little disbelieving grin spreading on his lips was usually Dante's.

He laughed. How strange, to be reminded of him twice in less than a day. Even Miss Pascallini's disapproving frown seemed amusing, somehow. It was probably the medicine.

"I assure you, Miss Pascallini, this is no illness," he said, as soothingly as he could make it. "A friend gave me a sleeping aid, that is all."

"You don't look _remotely_ rested!" she protested.

"I'm afraid the medicine did not agree with me," Vergil admitted. "I'm not... used... to pharmaceuticals, in general. I don't think I'm trying that again."

More like he wasn't letting Vitto pull anything like that again. But Miss Pascallini seemed mollified by his explanation, or at least willing to move past the topic.

"Well, you're running late, but you still should eat something before you leave. A _proper_ breakfast," she specified, before Vergil could get a word in edgewise. "The work of a knight cannot be taken lightly!"

"I— I will, ma'am, gladly," he said, still amused. "But I'm not late, not today. There is a ceremony," he explained, showing her the dress uniform he still held. "We were all afforded extra time for preparations."

She eyeballed the uniform, as if daring it to refuse breakfast, before doing a double-take.

"...that is an _officer's coat!_ " she exclaimed, before glancing searchingly at his face, wide-eyed. "You are— you are getting a _promotion!_ "

"So I have been led to believe," said Vergil, gently. "...but there _is_ still time for them to claim they were kidding."

He'd meant it in jest, but she swelled like a bullfrog, her little eyes flashing in fury. 

"They would not _dare_ ," she snarled, before pulling Vergil out of his room as decisively as she'd pushed him in. "Ooh, but if they _do—_ is it open to civilians, this ceremony? Family members?"

"I am not... sure," Vergil mumbled. He had no one to invite, so he hadn't paid attention.

"Well, I'll look into it. Not there!" she yanked him back away from the bathroom door. "Not today, _mister_. You are getting a _good proper soak_ and you are _washing that hair_ and it needs trimming. Oh _Savior_ , we really have been overlooking those split-ends—"

"Ma'am, it'll be fine," he said, back in the state of vague bewilderment Miss Pascallini usually provoked in him. "I always comb it back."

"It's _not_ fine and we are _not_ giving _anyone_ reason to criticize a _single button_ on you!" She vociferated, as she dragged him into a surprisingly feminine, richly furnished room. He spotted chiffon and embroidery and the yellowed portrait of a man in eye-blistering colors, before being led to a bathroom and its tub.

Vergil raised no objections when his clothes were removed from his grasp, and the door closed on his face. Miss Pascallini was a force of nature in the shape of a pudgy spinster, and if his life in Fortuna had taught him one thing, it was to pick his battles. He turned to the tub instead.

His own childhood memories of bathtubs were little different from his memories of swimming at the manor's lake— often involving copious amounts of splashing, screeching, and Dante. Absent all three, he found himself sitting for ten minutes in slowly cooling water, wondering what, if anything, made the experience special. 

As far as he could tell, he didn't feel any more improved than he would have been after a normal, short shower. Maybe he should think of it as a ritual, its perceived importance derived solely from the excesses involved: one's willingness to spend gallons of water, along with the gas or electricity required for its heating, plus minutes of precious time, for the sake of doing absolutely nothing but sit with one's own self. 

...put that way, it was a surprisingly subversive act of indulgence. He resolved to partake for two more minutes before getting bored, and proceeding with the business of getting clean.

Once done, he steeled both his resolve and his grasp on his towel before cracking the door open into Miss Pascallini's room. There was no telling what she might do— pull him out, or insist on helping him dress— and although he was confident he _could_ flee, should it come to that, he was significantly less sure of his ability to not be bollixed into compliance.

She instead bollixed him by pushing a bundle of cloth through the crack, then returning to whatever mystifying activity she'd busied herself with. It was not his uniform, but a common shirt and pants, along with his most recently-purchased pair of boxers.

Those were... not the ones he had set aside for the day. Also, she had ironed them. Who even ironed underwear? No one looked at underwear. Being _under_ the actually ironed clothes was the entire point of underwear. 

He wore the pointlessly ironed boxers, and the rest of what was most definitely not his uniform, before stepping out. 

"Good!" She said, tossing the clothes iron onto the board's tray— the same gigantic, tongue-fed one from the laundry room, which he'd assumed she could not lift— and sweeping around the spread of his half-pressed uniform to turn her dressing chair pointedly in his direction.

"I ironed it yesterday," he pointed out, futilely.

"And I am ironing it _again_ ," she announced, undaunted, wiggling the chair for emphasis.

He sat, meekly accepting the fact that he had, in fact, been bollixed into compliance. She wrapped a bed sheet snugly around his shoulders, then attacked his already brushed hair with a comb so fine, one might mistake it for a delousing implement; his dreaded split-ends were assailed with a pair of sewing scissors the size of a devil weapon. 

She triumphantly turned him around to face the mirror. He saw no difference.

"I— thank you, ma'am," he said, in lieu of admitting as much. The bed sheet had a flower print. He felt strangely small.

She pushed him back down when he tried to stand, her pudgy grasp simultaneously light and weighted by a thousand years of condemnation. In her other hand a pair of minuscule tweezers flashed like a lethal weapon.

He'd shaved before bed. His beard grew at the speed of molasses. He could go nearly a month without shaving, and he'd done it twice that one week because of the damn ceremony. She still hunted down and plucked out every single stray hair to dare display its white, nigh-transparent follicles on his skin, from cheek down to collarbone. 

Then she felt the bulk of his pendant under the blanket.

"Hmm," her eyes narrowed pitilessly as Vergil's soul went cold in his body. "Is that a chain? I never saw it on you. Did you wear it into the tub?"

The blanket— he was— restrained. He was restrained. He had to flee, he had to _flee—_

"Oh, _hun_ , that's no good for chains!" she said, suddenly— snapping him back into the ruffly room, with its chiffon and embroidery and rickety dressing table and the blown-up portrait of a foreign man in terrible eighties fashion and...

His eyes caught movement. It was her hand, raising a brush.

She brushed his already brushed and subsequently combed hair.

"You can't just take it in faith that something is waterproof, you know," she continued with uncharacteristic gentleness, petting his hair with both the brush and her small palm. "Even if it doesn't rust, it can stain. If it's plated, the foil might come off. And the links on a chain do retain water, if you're not careful. I've got a little towel and a hair dryer here so you can double-check, okay?"

Vergil... croaked. That was the only possible description for the sound that made its way out of his pinched throat, a ghastly, moribund little cry, stillborn in his lips. Even had he had a voice, he might have croaked still; words lay somewhere beyond his grasp.

"Now be a dear and let me get that sheet off," she went on, implacable in her consideration, reaching around his back with wide movements. "Shh, no, no, it's got hair on it— we don't want that on you," she said, as she tugged the blanket off and Vergil bit down the urge to bolt. "You just took a bath. Stay put, there we go."

She aimed a screeching dryer at his shirt, blowing hot air and incidentally thawing the icy claw around his lungs. His pendant had to— to be _visible_ through his billowing shirt, but if she noticed, she did not bring it up. Instead she handed him a scratchy tea towel with an embroidered hem, then babbled on about breakfast, and how he was going to eat it _before_ touching his perfectly clean uniform, thank you, all the while pretending he was not wiping off cold sweat.

She led him downstairs to the table, pushed his numb body onto a chair, and proceeded to add absurd things to the usual simple spread: honey, marmalade, ham, candied fruit, cocoa powder, strawberry milk powder, soda, condensed milk, malted milk, a box of stale oatmeal, a bowl and spoon, an apple with a smiling face carved on it. She then boiled an entire bag of actual milk before leaving him to his own devices.

Vergil grabbed the slab of marmalade bare-handed and bit into it like the starveling he once was.

The malted milk went into the bowl, and then the cocoa and the strawberry powder, and sugar, and honey, and a few sprinkles of oatmeal, and he stirred the abomination until it approached the consistency of cake dough; then he shoveled it all in along with his shaky, uncontrollable anxiety, the burst of artificially flavored sugar mingling with the saltiness of the tears and snot he despondently sniffled in. Weak. _Pathetic_. 

Vitto was right. He really did have the worst sinusitis. 

Vergil buried his face in his hands, then immediately regretted the action when he felt the coarseness of sugary mud coating both his palms and cheeks. A huff of laughter surprised its way out of him. What a mess he was, in so many senses and levels! He stumbled up to the sink and washed off as well as he could, then fell back onto his chair feeling marginally more— alive.

He'd almost thought "more human" but. He felt way too human already, and was that _not_ the source of his woes? (He carefully overlooked the indignities his demon side had subjected him to for the last year. They were for Nero, they didn't count.)

When Miss Pascallini came back downstairs, twenty minutes later, he had well demolished the table's contents, and was feeling too abashed to be panicked.

"Ma'am, I—" he started, only to be talked over.

"You're taking another shower," she announced, as she swept around him and over the table to gather its paltry remains.

"—what?" he stammered.

"You're covered in crumbs, mister, and I'm not letting you in your freshly ironed uniform until you're _not_!" she said, whipping at his shoulders with another of her ubiquitous tea towels. "Now up, up you go! Back to my bathroom— I found a bottle of soap more appropriate to a man. Let no one say you smell of womens' soap!"

Vergil could not fathom why he should care if anyone did. But he allowed himself to be herded back into a bath, then was handed his dress pants and undershirt and stood still for Miss Pascallini to fussily strap and fasten everything else: perfectly creased, perfectly starched, a white brighter than he ever thought possible. He hastily brushed off the offer for a taxi and stepped out of the house feeling sharper than Dante's Rebellion. 

And then, once safely away from her anxious gaze, he ducked into the first appropriate hideaway and sliced a path into Fortuna Castle.

Sanctus was in the middle of swearing in a bunch of deacons. His father's bedroom was empty, the bed immaculately made. No servants to silence. Vergil sat on the burgundy silks and laid a gloved palm upon the dark wood, feeling the subtle weave of his father's magic. 

To all senses, pure solid cedar. But with an injection of his own magic, and a careful application of his bloody thumbprint— very careful, his dress glove well out of the way— the scowling dragon carved upon it opened its mouth, and Vergil shoved in the trinket he'd only recently located (stolen from its original niche, then pawned off to a seedy shop, _why must Fortuna be that way—_ ).

The bed, it turned out, was still very much solid cedar. His father had used it as storage anyway. Before his eyes, rolls upon rolls of parchment tumbled out onto the pillows, melting out of the wood without leaving any apparent mark, tea-stained and tied with fraying ribbons. He opened one at random, praying to himself that it be _not_ a collection of lullabies. 

Looping cursive. Long paragraphs, stricken sentences, blots, marginalia. Several sheets of them tied together, his father's hand alternating with a calligraphy he did not recognize. He skimmed one of the crossed-out paragraphs.

_—I dare not yet commit to such an undertaking, and according to the good crone neither did Esarhaddon, but—_

He tied the sheets back into a roll.

"Jackpot," he whispered to himself, and then cringed in embarrassment.

The clock approached eight. He was to present himself at eight-thirty for instructions, be ready and presentable at nine, and look sharp and alert until ten for his own ceremony. He had no time for reading, not yet— but he had it, at last: his father's personal correspondence. An excess of it, which he hastily and awkwardly dropped off at the Oracularium's rafters, careful not to catch dust on his uniform.

It would be a long morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kid Vergil: *dumping sugar and chocolate powder and dried milk in a cup, adding just a little bit of actual liquid milk, mixing it into a gritty sugary paste, eating it out with a spoon*  
> Adult Dante: *vaguely queasy flashbacks as he stands over his perfectly reasonable pizza, thank you*


	28. A memory of absence

Dear _god_ was that a long morning.

The ceremony started with, of course, a lengthy chain of prayers in his father's honor, followed by the announcing, and subsequent entrance, of every person of mildest relevance to grace the chapel— the smaller one, for events that didn't involve the Vicar, to Vergil's relief. The liturgy was conducted by a second-rate deacon instead, and none of the guests on the clerical side surpassed said deacon in hierarchy or importance.

But on the martial side, the attendees were dignified by the presence of the Supreme Commander himself.

Vergil was braced for his entrance, but only just, and only due to Filippo's thoughtfulness. Not that Filippo had understood the source of his panic; he'd merely informed his group that they would be receiving their pins from the man himself, yes, he always does this, no, his presence is not required, it's not among his official duties, but he's a good man and— 

Vergil had hurried to his locker to dig out his bandanna, and Filippo had trailed him, palms raised.

"Sonny, now, don't panic," Filippo had said soothingly, politely ignoring Vergil's grumbled and definitely truthful _not panicking._ "The Commander is a goodly man, and he would not judge you even had he cause to."

Then he'd gone on at length about the Nicene's famed ancestry of— and Vergil had been ready to tune it all out, only it happened to be some _urchin_ taken in by some random guard, unrelated to Sparda and his rule. This ancient display of kindness led to a tradition in the family of fostering problem children, such as, apparently, Filippo himself. He sang the commander's praise, and walked Vergil back to the waiting room as if he were a wounded, skittish little critter.

Having been thus guilted into displaying his extremely distinctive hair to the Sergeant's adoptive and most likely embroiled in unsavory schemes brother— and surely he could have given Filippo some of the promotions he was owed?— Vergil pulled his hood a little lower than his so-called peers as they stood stock-still before a small dais. 

It put the Commander at just the right height to see Vergil's face under his hood, and Vergil bemoaned his bandanna one last time.

The ceremony itself was quick, at least; they knelt for a short prayer, then the deacon sprinkled holy water with little regard for aim as they held their new emblems on small trays— which were then pinned in place by the Commander, under the unspoken assumption that it would be sewn into place at a later opportunity. The deacon blessed them effusively, loosely sketched the sword and wing on the air, and then they were promoted.

That was when the Commander stepped forward, and Vergil braced himself for a long and dull speech.

"You are now Bannerets of the Order of the Sword," he began, with a surprisingly strong, full voice. "Having distinguished yourselves through skill and service, you now carry among your duties that of leading your fellow knights into battle, should the need arise; in time, you will have the opportunity to pick your bachelors amid your fellow knights and squires."

Vergil knew nobody outside of Filippo and now Paolo. 

"Make no mistake," the Commander said as he paced, studying their lineup. "Leadership is not a reward. And for those who are distinguished by skill at arms..." he paused for effect, and Vergil assumed that meant _him_ , though the man was not indicating anyone in particular, "...leadership is not a burden either."

He paced back to the center, and looked at each of them in turn, lingering on Vergil— but with a sympathetic smile, rather than the expected façade of stern authority. Vergil tamped down the urge to frown, but something must have given him away, as the commander's smile turned slightly rueful.

"This group is unusually blessed with martial talent," he said, dropping some of his formality; his gaze lingered on a couple of other knights as he spoke, and Vergil was suddenly curious as to whether any of them could compare to him in a quantifiable way. "And I understand that, for some of you, it would be more expedient to undertake missions on your lonesome— as a couple of you have been, so far."

Vergil certainly had.

"But tempting as it is to be a... _rock-star_ —" Vergil tried not to choke as the Commander used actual finger-quotes; someone in the audience blurted a laugh in his stead. "The farmer in the field cares not for your form."

The chapel grew suddenly dry.

"The mother in the markets will not judge your poise," he continued, as the undercurrent of conversation floundered and died at Vergil's back, "and the children at the beach will cheer regardless of your fumbles— so long as they are safe. So long as they are protected."

The Commander's mild and conversational tone reverberated against the walls, loud in the stunned silence. 

"Not even the most superlative skill at arms will serve our cause as well as a group of even the humblest and most average squires," he continued, "if they are led with confidence and placed where needed. Because our cause is to defend as many as we can, as much as we can, and _that_ , my friends, none of us can accomplish alone. For the Savior himself could not hope to be in two places at once."

Vergil's soul made a concerted effort to flee into the cold marble floor.

"None of us is as strong as all of us together," the Commander continued, blithely, while fire and smoke licked the edges of Vergil's sight, and— "No strength, no skill, no weapon can make up for an absence in the field, or a gap in a phalanx."

Mother, mother, their house in flames, where was Dante, where was _Father_ —

"But when you lead your squad into battle, you are as one," the Commander's voice echoed incongruously in the bloodied memory. "Their hands are your hands, their blades are your blades, and so long as it stands fast before the face of evil, a blade need only be sharp _enough_." 

Vergil blinked against the stark whites of the chapel, the sting of embers. Why was he wandering that old nightmare? The fire flickered, and Mother's hair was fanned around her head in a backdrop of glistening crimson, but all this he knew, he knew all too well. Not even Father could be in two places at once, and he had no desire to revisit the consequences of that one absence. 

"Thus the Savior saw fit to found our Order, to be His blade and shield in His absence," the Commander said, at last. "Trusting us, small and weak and ever so fallibly _human_ as we are, to reach where His Almighty Blade could not, and to stand where His Enduring Shield could not. And as He trusted us, so must we trust those under our lead." 

Had they had a battalion of human knights, would it have been enough? Had they dwelt in Fortuna Castle, would it have been enough?

"Set aside all pride, children. It has no place in the heart of a protector."

Vergil was lightly nudged by the knight at his side— the Commander was bowing his head, hands together in the Order's prayer stance, and the others were following suit. He mimed the gesture mechanically, followed the line back to the spot on the side where other celebrants stood.

"You okay?" asked the knight in a whisper, as the Commander bestowed someone a commendation for some excruciatingly banal accomplishment. "You looked like a ghost licked your ear."

"I appreciate the attempt at humor," Vergil whispered back. "I will be fine."

He had plenty of time to recover, as the ceremony went on for a great many dull hours. Plenty of time to think, too. Assuming the Commander had not recognized him— he had stared at Vergil but shown no sign of recognition or, more importantly, sycophancy— and therefore assuming that Nero's secret remained safe...

He'd been so amazed at the prospect of a future, since his foray into the lab. But the amazement was just that: stunned wonder, vague notions, daydreams of having child and mother under the same roof, within sight and reach. And whenever the question of _where_ haunted him, he would... stop, brace, pledge nothing so long as the battlefield remained—

He had avoided the question, for it had no good answer. Nowhere was safe enough. Not even the home his father had carved out for them had been safe enough, in the end.

Behind his eyelids, Vergil tried to calculate how many bodies it would take to keep a demonic mob from reaching a defenseless woman. How many more minutes, even seconds, could be bought by the most mediocre knight of the Order? 

In numbers alone, Fortuna's rate of demonic incursions outranked Redgrave's by orders of magnitude. Father had been hard-pressed to not stand out in Redgrave's mundane high-society, and passing as middle-class would have been far beyond his old-fashioned and slightly dim capabilities; it would be impossible for the family to not stand out in Fortuna, a city with little privacy and limited escape routes. They would have been found within days, maybe hours, by demons and priests both.

Sparda had eschewed Fortuna in favor of secrecy and anonymity, a sentiment Vergil could sympathize with, however misguided. He'd made his gamble and lost the bet, and Vergil could only hope to learn from that mistake. 

But again— assuming Nero's ancestry remained under wraps— could he not have both anonymity and security? A daisy-chain of knights sworn to defend, without the isolation of a wide, empty manor? Forget Fortuna Castle, any who knew the least of Sparda's history would target it first. To live within the city instead— either the business or the central districts, which were more overtly defended— why not? To be as leaves in a forest, under Fortuna's ubiquitous white hoods, surrounded by all sorts of magical blood to confuse pursuit...

Why _not?_

__

And in case Nero _were_ discovered in his orphanage, well.

__

He could give Vitto a quick phone call and then lay Yamato against Sanctus' neck, negotiate some quick terms. Ensure a measure of secrecy against the wider populace. The Conclave would be delighted to be given exclusive rights to kissing his ass, surely, and Sparda's descendant would no doubt rate some hand-picked bodyguards at the very least. And should any of their schemes so much as inch towards Nero, then he could— 

__

...could he? _Would_ he, should it come to it, lower his head and swallow his pride for the sake of Nero's _of fucking **course** he would_. God, what a pathetic question. It would be the nuclear option, yes, but he would, unflinchingly, for Nero.

__

Call Dante, that was. What was it again, that the Commander had just said? Pride was worthless before Nero, or something to that effect. Yes, that had been definitely what was said, or close enough. 

__

Fortuna it would be, then, he thought as he watched another newly retired knight limp his way to the front. There was a whole bunch of them, scarred, deformed, missing this or that limb, and old to boot. Vergil considered the usual human performance before a demon, then thought back to Vitto's speech about human resilience, and decided it was a good sign. Yes, if an eyeless knight with a peg-leg could apparently finish his forty-five years of service, then the prospects for less maimed knights to successfully jump between Nero and danger were promising indeed. 

__

After an eternity of handing out retirement promotions, the ceremony was paused for a late lunch, consisting of mediocre canapes and thin juice. Vergil lingered by the table, spooning extra sugar into his plastic cup, when he spotted the Commander greeting and nodding his way in a roundabout path toward him.

__

"Are you well?" the Commander asked him, solicitously, when he finished his approach. 

__

"Better than most days," Vergil answered, mildly, stirring the clump of sugar at the bottom of his juice. "Thank you for asking."

__

"I understand that you have the advantage of experience over your fellows," the man continued. "It was a strong consideration in your appointment. You were a devil hunter on the continent, correct?"

__

Vergil nodded, then sipped his juice with some haste. Something about the Commander's stance was bothering him, and together with his tone of voice it stirred in him a strange kind of annoyance. What was his angle? What was he trying to imply? Who was he trying to mimic?

__

It was that last, unexpected question that led Vergil to the memory of Miss Pascallini.

__

"Um," he said, and then quickly plugged his mouth with a canape before he blurted something out. But it was unmistakable now: the set of his shoulders, the slight angle to his head, the tone of voice, they were all very similar to Miss Pascallini's demeanor on that very same morning, when Vergil had been in a— likely noticeable— dangerous headspace.

__

So not only the knight at his side, but the Commander himself had taken note of his momentary weakness. And now he was trying to seem... non-threatening?

__

It would anger him, were it not so patently ridiculous. 

__

"I have heard that Devil Hunters work alone, out there," the man continued. "Out of necessity, rather than overconfidence. I hope you will forgive me for lumping you with the usual show-offs. I try to keep my speeches short, and drawing attention to your foreignness seemed unwise."

__

Vergil studied him further. The man seemed too earnest, almost awkwardly so, but did not seem otherwise tense or fearful. Even his scent betrayed nothing but the likelihood of Vitto-grade coffee having figured in his breakfast. If he knew aught of Vergil's blood, then he was an actor of unparalleled skill. 

__

"There is nothing to forgive," Vergil said, deciding if anything to respect the Commander's hypothetical thespian chops. "I would thank you, rather. You have given me much to think about."

__

"Full glad I am to hear that," the Commander said, his eyes shining. "It is my hope that, should you reach any conclusion, it be that you need not face your hardships alone— in the battlefield or out of it. As you serve the Order, so are you served by it." He smiled with near painful eagerness. "Any aid or counsel you may require—"

__

"Tino, are you _haranguing_ the lad? Right _here?_ " asked a familiar and welcome voice, as Filippo, looking strange and out of place in his dress uniform, pushed his way to the table and raised a wide square hand in clear view before slapping Vergil's shoulder with it. "You can leave, kiddo, your pals went off ahead so you don't even gotta worry about being the first to flee."

__

"Oh thank _god_ ," Vergil muttered, not even that concerned about the Commander's presence. Filippo was his foster brother, he ought to be used to rudeness. He took one last swig off the gritty sugar at the bottom of his cup, then dropped it unceremoniously back on the table. "And the Savior, bless his horns. Thank you Sir," he nodded to Filippo, and then, just in case, added "Commander," and hurried to the doors with all the dignity he could muster.

__

He was insufficiently hasty as he overheard Filippo's hiss, all his cheer gone. "What are you _thinking_ , singling out the lad like that! He's a _man!_ You wound his pride!"

__

"Oh, Lippo—" the Commander whispered back, soulful and beseeching and almost young, "He had a _flashback_ , right up there, he just endured it and he's thirty years too young to be having—"

__

Vergil closed the door behind him. Whatever a flashback was he _definitely_ wasn't having it, or anything that may afflict fifty year old humans, and he did not appreciate the Commander diagnosing him with it— much less while employing the plaintive tone of a young Dante crying over The Land Before Time. _Yes_ , Dante, the dinosaurs did go extinct, also cartoons are not real, and _he_ didn't cry—

__

He'd wasted enough time. His father's correspondence awaited, and so did Isobella.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: _Please._ A flashback is the boring filler that comes before cool anime fights. I have no need for such tomfoolery.


	29. The Awakened Oracle, part 1

It was past two in the afternoon by the time Vergil left Headquarters, which put a significant hamper on his original plans for the day. The Oracularium's afternoon rounds took place around three, and he'd planned on clearing the cell and preparing to hide at least a quarter before then; but this late in the hour it was no longer even worth it to set up anything bulkier than the eyedropper bottles. 

Still, Vergil brought down two vellum rolls to read, in case the rounds came in late. Unease and excitement thudded in his ears despite his best efforts, and he forced himself to go through the motions of Isobella's care at a slower pace, to temper his overeagerness. His hands shook slightly as he dropped lachrymal solution onto her glassy eyes, and only once everything was tightly closed and placed back in their little compartments did he drop to the floor and untie the closest sheaf of letters.

He was halfway through an infuriating correspondence regarding the exciting advances in the field of loom engineering— what did his father care, why was he so into them— when an unexpected sound broke through the fog of his steaming temper.

It was chanting. Dulled and muffled by the stone walls, but steadily approaching. 

Well, that was new, and ominous, and it wasn't stopping for the other prisoners. Vergil rolled his father's loom manifesto with both relief and pride at his foresight, and made his way to the rafters in relative calm. Briefly he considered resuming his read, but a different kind of curiosity won out; something different was clearly about to take place below.

And just as expected, the somber musical entourage entered Isobella's cell in stately formation. Truly, which other prisoner would warrant that level of buffoonery? He laid down over the customary gap on the boards, heedless of his brand-new uniform, as a number of nuns carried in the usual tray with its pot of gruel, its foldable support and chair, and the lamp; not as usual were the elaborate brass staves with candles held by an excessive number of extra nuns, or the one with a clipboard.

Or the nun with an elaborate headdress and tunic thrown over her habit.

That nun— Mother Clemency, he assumed— watched imperiously as a group of sisters took care of Isobella's cleaning with great solemnity. More than cleaning, even; once the basic care was done, they brought out aromatic oils and went on to rub and massage Isobella's skin for the first time in an entire year of Vergil's scrutiny.

She was getting another towel bath when this was done, Vergil decided. In the meantime, he was going to make sure he had a good sense of the door effigy's location; this was his best opportunity to knock it down, and he had to make it count.

Once the perfume bath was done, another sister perched primly on the chair, tipping spoonfuls of gruel into Isobella's lips. Its smell wafted upwards as the concoction was stirred, and even mingled with the oils he could tell it was different than the usual; something sharp and vaguely familiar had been added to the gross herbal porridge, something that put him in mind of Vittorino of all things—

The gruel had been finished and the nuns had moved into chanting solemn praise when Vergil recalled the existence of coffee.

Or not quite; for all that the drink itself was bitter, its scent was energizing and quite pleasant, and this did not compare. But they must have had some manner of component in common, and, contemplating the circus below, Vergil could easily guess what it was.

Fifteen minutes into the chanting, Isobella's eyelids began to quiver.

The chanting shifted and changed as the nuns tensed, and Mother Clemency strode confidently towards the now unoccupied chair, sitting regally at Isobella's bedside. 

"Attend me, child," the Mother bid, her voice powerful, commanding, trained to carry. 

The chanting stopped. Isobella weakly moved her head toward the source of the sound, but reacted no further. The Mother watched her fixedly; when a sister raised the pot of gruel questioningly, she raised an imperious hand in refusal.

"Child," she demanded again. "Attend me."

"...am not a child," Isobella mumbled, rolling her head away, to Vergil's amusement. "Who is there...?"

"Come, now, young lady," the Mother said, her commanding tone now replaced with warm, fond reproach. The change filled Vergil with a fascinated revulsion, like the sight of a lizard shedding its skin. "The Savior has extended His grace upon you and made you Oracle," she continued, heedless of Isobella's heartfelt groan. "Speak unto us His wisdom that we may hear."

Isobella groaned again, a deeply annoyed, cantankerous sound, then blinked her unseeing eyes at the wall, vague and slow.

The nuns waited breathlessly for her to make another sound.

"Child," called the Mother, again, even as Isobella simultaneously spoke— 

"Where's Vergil?"

The Mother's face slammed shut like an iron gate.

"There is no place in the Savior's plan for such worldly concerns," the Mother said, her expression as pitiless as her voice was warm. "Embrace His all-encompassing luminance, that He may bestow upon you his wisdom."

"Vergil is back," Isobella murmured, as if she'd politely waited out the Mother's prattle, but given it only the regard it deserved.

"This man you speak of has abandoned you," insisted the Mother— as rage sizzled in Vergil's veins, right above her head. "You gifted him your purity, and he vanished with it. Your body lies broken and shriveled, your beauty and youth no more. Only the Savior will return your love. Open your heart to Him, and become His Oracle."

"Mmh, no," Isobella mumbled.

Vergil took a deep breath, unclenched his fists. No, indeed, he couldn't just decapitate the Mother— that is to say, he _shouldn't_ decapitate the Mother, at least not yet. It... would be unhygienic, surely, in this cell. 

His fury could hold until he deemed it ripe for the quelling. If Fortuna truly were to be Nero's home, then he must upend it at the right time, and not a moment before.

"Silly, silly child," the Mother continued; but Isobella was not having her sermonizing.

"It's too late for you lot," she said, with such silent, rock-solid conviction that even Vergil, for a moment, believed it a prophecy, a command, _permission_. "Vergil was here. He spoke to me."

"This man has forsaken you," the Mother intoned, with nearly matched conviction. "He used you, and he discarded you, your body dishonored, your infant deceased—"

_What?_

"—but the Savior has granted you renewed purpose in his light," she continued, her voice kindly, her face pitiless. "Abandon all worldly concerns, my child, and open your heart to His words."

"I hear him," Isobella murmured, soft and calm; on the rafters, Vergil dug his fingertips into the wooden beams, his soul churning in a black hatred, _knowing_ she did, _willing_ her to speak his feelings— "He says you are all _proverbially_ fucked."

Oh, she knew him, she _knew_ him. Vergil relaxed minimally. Slicing the rafters onto their heads would only satisfy for a fleeting moment. Think of the dust, he told himself. Scrubbing off all those splattered brains. Eye fluids were bad enough.

The Mother's face crumpled in a thin-lipped wince, as if envisioning the same cleanup efforts, and she turned away from the bed at last.

"Stubborn child," she groused, standing from her chair with some effort. "Chosen by the Savior Himself, and yet she spurns His light."

"Says you," Isobella muttered under her breath, to Vergil's amusement.

The Mother ignored her. "We shall give it more time," she told the gathered nuns, business-like. "A month, maybe two. The old files did mention weeks of prophetic activity for each year of careful preparation. For the moment, her words are worthless; the ravings of a spurned woman, nothing more."

"Woman, now?" Isobella quipped from her bed, as the nuns carefully doused their candles and gathered their implements.

The Mother did not react, merely waving an imperious hand at the sister with the clipboard. "Succor, you heard me. None of this is worth registering."

"I must protest, Mother," the Sister said, her eyes firmly on her papers, her pencil still gliding. "Every word from every oracular novitiate is to be treated as a prophecy _in potentia_ , and registered accordingly. So it was said."

"By me, yes," the Mother said, irritably. "And I say now that these utterances are not prophetic."

"How would you know?" the Sister finally looked up from her notes, her voice polite, her eyes steely.

A challenge.

Vergil leaned into the boards, focusing on the scribe at last. She was a short, bespectacled woman, young among the group of nuns but still older than Miss Pascallini. Unassuming, a bit like a wet bird. She should be crumpling before the statuesque Mother, but instead she stood calmly, pen in hand, clipboard at the ready, a knight in all but name.

"Sister Succor," the Mother said, her eyes narrowing with their own hint of steel. "You overstep your boundaries." 

"By doing my job?" Sister Succor asked again, the very soul of serenity. 

"By disobeying my instructions!" the Mother spoke, harshly, over the soft sound of Isobella's hoarse chuckling. "I am your superior in this institution!"

Sister Succor curtsied, her formality betrayed only by the writing implements she still clutched like weapons.

"Mother Clemency, you are our Paragon," she said. "Our guiding light, an example to follow. But you are not a Master, and I am not a Servant; you are Mother and I am Sister. We both answer to a Higher Power, and He disdained of blind obeisance— had He not, we would yet shiver 'neath the shadow of the Prince of Darkness."

The Mother pursed her lips again, studying Sister Succor as if, like Vergil, she were seeing her for the first time. 

"Explain your reasoning, then," the Mother said, with a hint of irritation. "Why is her disrespectful ranting worth taking into consideration?"

"First and foremost," the Sister began, "the Savior's regard is undeniable upon her. She has recovered from severe privation without outside intervention, before our very eyes. He _is_ acting upon her, and through her. We overlook this reality at our own risk. Secondly and no less importantly, we must register her words because _all_ words from _all_ novitiates are— even the enraged curses and terrified pleas of the newly enrolled are studied with due care. If we draw the line at her rudeness, disregarding the proof of the Savior's touch upon her person—"

Isobella's chuckling turned, momentarily, into giggling—

"—then have we not wasted our time, all these years? All our previous prophecies were derived from textual analysis of the novitiates' words, none of which were afforded such miraculous intervention. To disregard her as she is, is to reveal those lesser prophecies as fanciful fabrications."

 _Reveal_. The sisters tensed, the Mother drew herself up with great dignity. Sister Succor gulped, her eyes wide; Vergil guessed that she had not meant to make the implied accusation. 

From the way she, too, raised her chin and set her shoulders, she at least intended to stand by it.

"The Savior's will is filtered by her worldly thoughts, and expressed in terms she can comprehend," she continued, with but a small quiver in her voice. "Thus have all our prophecies been extracted from apparently senseless babbles. Have they not?" The Sister clenched her clipboard closer, hiked it up to better cover her vitals; her nerves were getting the best of her. "There is no reason not to employ the associative method to glean the message that was muddled by her waken mind."

"I suppose not," the Mother conceded, although her face remained steely. "Certainly, I would not presume to contradict the _expert_. Do tell," she continued, venomously, as the gathered nuns shrunk away from the Sister. "How would you employ this associative method to sieve the prophecy from the _chaff?_ "

Sister Succor took a deep breath. "She names her erstwhile lover, 'Virgil'—"

"A heretical foreigner who _deflowered_ her—" the Mother spat.

"A man," the Sister continued, eyes boring into her clipboard, "whom she has called for and obsessed over since her enrollment, according to our notes. One who greatly occupies her mind, and whom she associates with— love, yes." Sister Succor closed her eyes. "Love and _salvation_. And now, as the Savior's love and grace fill her, her unprepared mind associates His blessing with this mortal man—" the Mother tensed, sucking a breath through her teeth; the Sister paused just long enough to ensure no further interruptions. "She hears the Savior's words, and believes them to be messages from her prodigal beau."

"And _what_ ," the Mother hissed like an offended cat, "are those rude— _utterances_ — supposed to translate to?"

"The Savior has passed judgment upon us," said Sister Succor, confidently. "And we have been found wanting. It is time for contemplation and repentance, as we await his final verdict."

Oh, she was _good_ , Vergil thought. She got basically everything right, except for how he was, in fact, around, and also not prodigal. Maybe he could give Isobella actual instructions to pass on?

The hard set of the Mother's wrinkles dampened that particular plan. Her opinion was clear, on the prophecy and Sister Succor both; the latter shivered softly, a wet bird under a sudden chill.

And then the Mother deflated.

"Yes, Sister," she said, gently again. "I do believe Sister Brava weighs upon all our minds."

Wait. What?

The anger and confusion in Succor's face were a pale echo of Vergil's own. "Mother—" she protested, clenching her pen, before Mother Clemency raised her imperious hand again.

"I am not dismissing your interpretation," she said, calmly. "Although I do believe it will require further analysis and research. But on the matter of our Oracle's ascent, you have made an excellent case. It would be remiss of me to ignore the evidence of our eyes."

Sister Succor flushed, her eyes shining. Vergil tensed instead; something about the Mother's posture— confident, calm, _victorious_ — told him to brace for a final strike.

"After all, the Savior Himself has granted strength and healing to his chosen novitiate," she continued, with false humility and smug grace. "She lies within his capable hands; death, sickness and starvation are no longer a concern..."

And there it was.

"Mother?" one of the other sisters asked, dumbly.

"This novitiate, our Oracle, has transcended human needs," the Mother smiled at her dopey nun. "Our intervention is clearly unnecessary, moving forward. We can now," she indicated the pot of gruel with a graceful hand, "divert our attentions to more pressing, needful matters. This is good news, my children," she said, smiling at the subdued nuns, her hands spread in an inviting gesture. "For all of us burdened by the Oracularium's maintenance, one less novitiate to look after means a great economy of effort and resources. Is that not true?" 

She waited for no answer, turning to face Sister Succor instead.

"Thank you, sister," she said, with sweet, gentle sincerity. "Were it not for your efforts, I would have never reached this epiphany."

Sister Succor said nothing. She was white as a sheet, eyes staring into the middle distance, even as the Mother ushered nuns around her and out the door.

"You will, of course, continue to register her utterances," the Mother continued, as silent and pale nuns wandered out into the corridor. "Once per day, for, oh, half an hour maybe. She should not require _waking_ , as the Savior surely energizes her as needed, but just in case. She is quite rebellious, after all. Do take note, Sister Claviger— Sister Succor is to have this key at mid-afternoon, for half an hour, and is to enter alone and only with what she may carry by herself. Clutter must not be permitted in this chamber! Oh, can someone fix that effigy? It's even more lopsided—"

She motioned to one of the stunned nuns passing by the door, who fearfully turned to obey— Vergil winced to himself, he'd _meant_ to knock it down once a nun did something disagreeable, but then everything had been _so disagreeable_ — 

Said sister picked the rusted effigy and dropped it with a cry.

The nuns stopped in their tracks, ogling the shattered iron— shattered, literally, and also smoldering like a cooling ember. What wasn't broken was bent on impact, the softened metal belied by the slowly fading glow in its innards. The door was blackened in its wake, its silhouette charred in place. 

Isobella's throaty, choked laughter broke the silence, brazen and delighted, even though her unfocused eyes still gazed half-lidded at the stone wall.

Vergil stared at the cooling effigy. He... _had_ been concentrating on its general position, he recalled. Very angrily so, with but half a mind. And he was oozing power by his pores with little control to begin with. 

He'd made his point, but very clumsily so. Perhaps too clumsily; below, Mother Clemency gathered herself back, brushing past the fright faster than her fellow nuns.

"Well," she said, dryly. "This is certainly an omen— but what _for_ remains to be seen."

And she looked pointedly at Sister Succor, as Vergil had guessed she would.

But Sister Succor was no longer a wet bird, her eyes meeting the Mother's steadily, galvanized. "Indeed," she said, calm despite her continued pallor. "Further portents will have to be examined very carefully."

"And they shall," the Mother said, with finality, before striding out of the cell. "Do not linger, now— our Oracle needs her repose."

The remaining nuns brushed past Sister Succor on their way out, sometimes with a wary glance or a touch of the hand, but she stood rooted in place, her face crumpling by degrees. Soon it was only her and the dopey nun, maneuvering a ring of enormous keys— who turned and grabbed Succor by the shoulders as soon as the corridor cleared.

"He was here," she hissed, and with a jolt Vergil recognized her as the third sister, the one from Brava and Flora's trio of stooges; Isobella's previous caretakers, gossipy and whiny, bickering through their chores. Gormless, this one had been, and weak— and she had been able to taste his presence in the very air.

"S-sister Claviger," said Succor, providing Vergil with a name at last. 

But Sister Claviger shushed her, wide eyes darting to and fro. 

"He was here," she repeated in a whisper. "He _is_ here, Sister, it is exactly as you said! I feel it in here, His blessing— just like His relics, but _more_ , I mean, not the scepter though, that one is inert, I think it's a fake sometimes, but— like the copper globe— yes, that one! The _air_ here is just like—"

Sister Succor stared at her in complete bafflement.

"Oh, I wish—" Sister Claviger covered her quivering lips with a hand. "If Brava were here, she was always right, even now she is right, and she would know what to do, for sure!... But I— I'll help, it's so unkind what the Mother is putting on you, forcing you to do her care on your lonesome and in so little time, and—" 

Both nuns stiffened, schooling their faces, and Sister Claviger bent down to pick the set of keys that had never dropped from her hand. A robed figure approached the door, hovering pointedly outside; the two nuns scurried out, closing the door at their backs, and Isobella's cell was plunged into complete darkness.

Immediately, Isobella began to sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mother Clemency: "Time to punish you for defying my authority! I mean acknowledging your points. But in a backhanded way."  
> Sister Succor: "But... won't that jeopardize her health--"  
> Mother Clemency: "What's that? Sounds like a YOU problem! Which won't be a problem if I'm wrong and you're right, as we have both just mutully agreed."  
> Sister Succor: "I don't recall agreeing to--"  
> Mother Clemency: "Mother OUT!" *flees*
> 
> The Literal Son of God, hunkered up in the rafters: *stern disapproval*


	30. The Awakened Oracle, part 2

Vergil was unsure how much Isobella could see, if at all; still he summoned a set of blades below the rafters, hoping to— comfort her, assuage her, give her a sign, he wasn't sure— but as they slowly drifted down from the ceiling her sobbing did subside, enough to pick up on the silence without.

He sliced his way back into the cell and stepped soundlessly onto the stone flooring, his ears focused on the sound of the departing nuns, his eyes fixed on Isobella.

She blinked damply at the wall, vague, confused, painfully fragile— but more alive than he'd seen her since their ill-fated goodbye. Could she sense the change in illumination? She was not reacting to his presence, even though he stood right by the cot...

He raised a hand, and watched its blurry shadow slither through cold blue light over her arm, her torso, and up to her face.

As soon as it reached her eyes, she gasped.

"No!" she cried, turning her head— and stopping again, her confusion palpable, as the movement shifted her eyes from under the shade. She stared into the middle distance, bug-eyed, glassy and unfocused, pinprick pupils searching aimlessly.

Vergil slowly lowered his hand. So she could see the light, but not him. Was it an effect of her starvation diet, or the constant darkness?

"Who is there?" she whispered, and a smirk spread unbidden on Vergil's face.

He knelt smoothly by the cot, with a mind to tease her with more shadows, or to greet her with a silent kiss— instead her hands fished unerringly for his coat, even though her eyes were aimed somewhere far to his left.

He let escape a huff of surprised laughter, and the birdcage of her chest jumped grotesquely at the sound.

" _Vergil_ ," she gasped, her grasp growing shaky, her fingers scrabbling and clinging in anxiety; Vergil relented, sinking all the way to the floor and letting her hands grope their way up his chest.

"It's me," he said, and as her searching hands found their way to his face, he planted a kiss on her palm.

She was crying again, her chest stuttering in ugly, shaky sobs, her face twisted into an ungainly grimace. Oh, but despair became her _not_.

"Are you—" she mumbled.

"Real? Yes," Vergil said, quickly, holding her hand to his cheek as her arm began to falter. "Today, and last night, and every night before then— I'm back, and I'm here. I'm..."

Sorry, he wanted to say, as he did every time she called out to him in her sleep; and again, it felt like a weak and burdensome word to saddle her with, in her fragile state.

Her thumb pressed feebly into his cheek, almost immediately quivering with the effort. She pressed her lips into a thin line, creasing her papery skin, and her deep-set eyes gleamed with tears as they gazed into the ceiling.

"Kill them," she whispered.

It took Vergil a second to parse her words. "Pardon?" he asked dumbly.

"Those nuns," she hissed, her trembling fingers pushing weakly into his skull. "Those— _bitches_. Kill them, slice them, and the priests—" she took a harsh breath, and the tendons on her neck jumped out like so many strings— "and my parents, and everyone— everyone— _kill them all_."

Vergil stared at her, bedridden, atrophied, wheezing in anger. Her teeth bared, gaps and all.

A knot unraveled in his lungs, and he laughed. Laughed and laughed, louder than it was wise, drunk with a strange, queasy relief; he buried his nose into her palm, and she made a concerted but doomed effort to claw into his face.

A whole year he'd grieved, pronouncing her dead from the very start, standing vigil over her hollow shell out of obligation and morbid infatuation. Wholly believing that the woman he'd known was dead, and that whoever next woke behind her eyes would be...

She pulled at her wrist, her entire arm rattling in pure offense, and he let her go; her hand immediately fell back onto his head, slapping and clawing with all the coordination of a newborn.

"Who are you—" she hissed, three parts tigress and one part snake. " _Who are you!?_ "

"Ah!" he cried, less from her strikes than from the sudden fondness flooding him. "It's me," he laughed, helplessly, "it's _me_ —"

He was a boy again, in the abandoned church, watching her line up rows of molotov cocktails against a wall. He was delighted and dismayed. 

He was in _love_.

"It's me," he said again, hoarse and clogged and damp, pushing her angry hand into his hair lest she touch his tears. "It's Vergil. It's me."

Her fingers tangled into his hair, curled halfway to a fist, and tried to pull. Oh, _Isobella_. Even when he resolved to cherish whatever she became, he never expected her to become so brightly, incandescently wrathful. 

"Then!" she snarled, panting from her efforts. "Then— get me _out_. Get me out of here!"

"I _can't_ ," he said, pathetically. "Not yet, your body—"

"You're not _real_ ," she sneered, pushing his head back in an attempt at a shove, and dropped her arm with a frustrated grunt. "Even my hallucinations fail me," she lamented, her unseeing gaze drifting back to the ceiling.

That... stung. The truth in it most of all. "I failed you," Vergil admitted. "More so by being no hallucination. You are not physically fit to be moved, however much I wish to— unless it is out through the front gate. And I'm afraid _that_ we can't yet afford."

Isobella kept her silence, and Vergil assumed he'd been fully dismissed for a dream— but she did react, mumbling in a confused tone.

"...you mean I can be bought out of here?" she asked.

Vergil scoffed, dropping to a seat as if they were having one of their meandering conversations at the forest ruins. 

"If only it were that simple," he groused. "Money can be obtained, legally or not; secrecy is the issue. I am operating incognito as a knight of the Order, keeping as low a profile as I can maintain, and Sanctus does not know about me. He most definitely must _not_ learn about you. Not... yet, at least, not until we're ready."

Isobella was quiet again for a few seconds.

"Why?"

"He would—"

"That all sounds so pointless..." she continued, interrupting him. "So... cautious and roundabout. Vergil was never like that. Why is my brain putting his name on you?"

Oh.

If only the Vergil of years past were around to hear this. He who thought himself so cunning, so prepared, he who would have put down _cautious_ as a particularly pretentious middle name. The Vergil curled in her cell could no longer picture the face his younger self would make, but he was sure it would have been memorable.

Instead, he blurted out a laugh. "Oh, Isobella," he said, rueful. "I found I had something to lose. You cannot fathom the fire it lit under me. So you think me careless?" he asked. "You wound me!"

"No, not careless," she mumbled thoughtfully. "You were... impulsive."

"I was?"

"Yes," she mumbled. "Passionate..."

She trailed off, but before Vergil could presume her asleep, she turned her thunderous face back in his direction, fingers clawing at the shoulder of his uniform.

" _Who are you?_ " She snarled again. "Why are you asking about— _what do you want with Vergil?_ " 

Of all the turns this conversation could take, 'interrogated about his nefarious intentions towards himself' was not one he had expected.

" _Isobella!_ " He shouted, in surprise and not a small amount of frustration. "You... you mad waif," he muttered, but his annoyance was already dissipating. "Think what you will, if it'll calm you down, just— stop flailing—"

He turned on his knees to tuck her back in properly, but she was having none of it, pushing his hands away with surprising deftness for one who was still staring wall-eyed at the spot he had just vacated.

"Bella, _please—_ "

" _Tell me who you are!_ " She demanded.

"I already did! You just don't—"

"You're _lying—"_

"I'm _not_ , you just don't believe me—"

"Then _prove it!_ " 

"How!?" Vergil threw his hands up, despite Isobella's inability to see them. "If I match your memories I'm a hallucination, if I don't I'm an impostor! You may as well just toss a coin!"

Isobella had quieted on her cot as he ranted, and Vergil's lungs froze around his breath— what if the agitation— should he have humored her? He hadn't changed at all. Impulsive, careless fool—

"...he," Isobella began, slowly, rolling her head back towards the wall. "He had something with him, always. A thing he never parted with."

So that was how it was going to be. Not the worst way to confirm his identity, truth be told. And quite like Isobella indeed, in her sneaky little way.

"So I did," he acquiesced, as he slowly eased Yamato's weight onto Isobella's chest. "And so I do."

Her hands fumbled upwards to grope at the scabbard, tugging futilely against Vergil's firm grasp— this was as far a concession as he was willing to make, even for her— before finding the hilt and pawing it blindly.

"That's right..." she whispered dreamily, a finger brushing the length of the hilt down to the guard. "He had a sword on him. Always."

"Are you convinced now?" Vergil asked.

"Hmmm," she hummed impishly, and at last said: "No."

Vergil was not surprised.

"This could be any sword," she elaborated. "I can't see, after all, and it's not like I ever touched the real thing." 

Vergil sputtered in indignation. "Like you ever _— yes you did!_ You just reached out and, and _poked_ her, how could you forget? We barely knew each other and you were already taking such— liberties..."

Vergil forcibly shut himself up with a palm to the face, then brushed his hair back, because of course— of _course—_ she was doing it on purpose. Yamato was a conspicuous blade, and any layman's forgery could be used to fool a sickly, blind woman, or to attempt to. 

No one else had been around to see her prod gigglingly at Yamato.

"Well," he said with a sigh. "You have your answer, I presume."

She didn't answer.

Slowly, she began to tremble.

" _Fuck_ ," Vergil said, nearly jumping to his feet. "What is it now?"

"I'm sorry," she mewled, to Vergil's horror— her arms curling against her torso in a failed attempt at hugging herself. "I— your— oh, no no _no_ —"

"Bella—"

"Forget it," she said quickly, a hand rising to her face and then dropping halfway; she was still shaking, and her temples were wet with tears, but she still squeezed out a rueful smile. "You don't know, you wouldn't know. It's nothing. It doesn't matter."

She sobbed out a laugh, her arms curling around her torso again, while Vergil dabbed at the corner of her eyes with gloved fingers.

"It matters to me," Vergil whispered, gently as he could make it.

"No, it's just, I—" she patted herself aimlessly, her uncoordinated hands searching for a deflection. "It's been. It's been so long, right?"

"Four years," Vergil said.

Isobella nodded weakly, and then her tight smile crumpled by degrees; her ribcage shook silently, almost and yet completely unlike laughter.

"...I'm _ugly_ ," she sobbed, then, sudden and unexplainable, her hands clenching on her linen sheet, over her bloated stomach, moving to her shrunken breasts—

What _had_ brought that on? Vergil blinked down in befuddlement, unsure what to do other than lay a hand on her trembling shoulder and make vague shooshing noises. Yes, she _was_ severely physically deteriorated, but had she really no recollection, however vague, of how much worse her state had been?

Probably not. And 'you aren't hideous anymore' was unlikely to improve her disposition, in the circumstances.

"Bella, please," he said, gently prying her hands away from her face; due to her atrophied state, she could only reach it by awkwardly raising her elbows to the ceiling, tendons long-unused visibly taut from the effort. "This is unlike you."

"They showed me," she choked out amid hitching sobs. "They brought— a mirror— oh, I'm so pathetic," she cried, thin and weak. "I must seem so— I never thought I'd care, but— in the end I'm just as shallow as mom used to—"

" _No_ ," Vergil said, decisively. "Your mother is a harpy and her tongue is poison, and you're—" he hesitated— "you're going to be..."

She shook her head, face creased with grief; Vergil had failed. He'd missed his chance and failed to protect her from the sickening truth, and now...

"Don't look at me," she whispered, her hands clenched bony and grotesque on the linens over her torso. "I'm— I'm _hideous._ "

Vergil rubbed his face, his eyes, studied her grieving, nigh spent form. Recalled his first vigil within this selfsame cell.

"Bella," he whispered, and rose from his knees.

Carefully, he perched on the cot by her side, and bent down to kiss her lips. She responded helplessly, trembling, and her mouth tasted like gruel, offensive in its blandness, and like tears. 

When his tongue brushed a gap in her teeth, she froze, her breath caught; she turned her head away, her blind eyes squeezed shut— but he was undaunted. Softly, he nipped at the jaw and ear she'd so conveniently exposed, worrying at them until she relaxed; soon her chest rose and fell in deep, shivering breaths.

Then Vergil slowly, very slowly, laid his body across hers, his head on her heaving chest. Her breath shuddered again, but not with tears; with greater confidence, Vergil tugged off his glove and splayed his palm on her sternum, caressing slowly up to her shoulder.

"My entire body yearns to prove you wrong," he whispered.

Her chest stuttered under his ear, but— yes, it was laughter; a sardonic little huff brushing the top of his head. 

"Flatterer," she whispered, and laid her palm on his arm.

They breathed slowly together, deep and ponderous, her scent close in his nostrils, until the rise and fall of her chest grew steady and even. The oils had faded into clamminess, the nuns' concoction had run its course; she slept now, no longer smelling of lavender and grief and fear and pain. 

Neither did she smell of desire, for all that Vergil had brazenly "seduced" her. Nor had he expected her to, in truth; she was so ill, so weak yet, who even knew if her body had the reserves for so little as warming up?

It had merely occurred to him that.

That it might have been a long time, for her, since.

Since she'd last been touched with affection.

The absence of touch had wracked him, in those first years of wandering. So simple, so pathetically human had been that yearning, and so sharp its memory in his skin. Even in his early adolescence, he could be thunderstruck by the illusion of a simple warm hug. Of all his human weaknesses, that one had required the most time and discipline to overcome. 

Which was why he was now, of course, lying on Isobella's chest with breath heavy in his lungs and blood hot in his veins.

How long, he wondered, lightheaded, how _long_ had it been since he'd last felt physical desire, _actual_ desire, rather than vague acknowledgment of an aesthetically pleasing shape? Isobella had been there, responsive and eager. He'd permitted himself the indulgence, more than once. Several times, even. A whole damn lot, to be completely honest. 

But even then he'd thought of it as a mild flame he could tamp down— and tamp it down he had, once he was back in the mainland and her memory had become a distraction.

Now, he was made to understand why passion was so often called an ache. 

Oh, how pathetic, this inconvenient arousal, this heady languor in his limbs. These goosebumps, the sound of her heartbeat...

He huffed in annoyance. This was stupid. Not his physical reaction— which was to be expected, given his general imbalance and lack of focus the last year— but his self-pity. Isobella was the one with real problems in this scenario, and he should be more concerned with concealing such physical mishaps. In her emotional distress, she might feel an obligation to— 

The thought was so nauseating he couldn't even finish it, but at least it took care of the problem. For a value of care.

Vergil made a face at himself and slid down from the cot, back onto the floor. He felt sour and clammy, now, but Isobella slept peacefully at least. Peacefully... without her saline drop, without her towel bath, without her vitamins.

Finally, Vergil hooked her up as she should be; nigh an afternoon later than he'd planned to, but, according to Mother Clemency at least, nuns would no longer be a concern. Isobella stirred but never fully woke as he worked, clearly exhausted, often barely registering his presence before dozing off again. 

Soon there was only Father's correspondence left to arrange. He set the weaving manifesto aside as a last resort and picked a roll at random, and then another, and finally, as the sunset beyond the tower grew nearly as orange as the camplight, Father spoke to him.

As expected, he'd corresponded with a witch in Dumary. But he might as well have enacted a pantomime for Vergil's sole benefit, him and his witch friend, all the way from the Renaissance; casually and spontaneously, they tossed each other every question he'd ever thought to have and more besides.

And then they answered.

Whence this good fortune? He gaped at the sheaves in his hands, much as he'd once gaped at his own incomplete and incorrect file in the Order's labs. 

Once again, it changed— everything. _Everything_.

Once again, the future unfurled before him like a tapestry of possibilities, and he could but stare cluelessly at its expanse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we can have a little demisexual Vergil, as a treat


	31. Offspring

"Congrats on your promotion," said Vitto, bent over a book on a stack of other books, while sitting on more books. 

Vergil clambered out of his portal, stumbled on a pile of hardcovers and sent several expensive-looking editions sliding to the floor. What? What was he talking—? Who cared?

God, who gave a _shit?_

"Inconsequential," he said, before sitting down on the sofa and instead sliding to the floor. Book stacks followed suit, thudding around him in a heap. That, too, was inconsequential. The letters were still safe in his grasp.

Vitto looked up from his reading with a vague frown. "You okay?" he asked.

In response, Vergil triumphantly raised the roll of stacked answers. "It's all here," he announced. "It's all here. It's all here. It's all—"

Vitto folded his page like an absolute heathen before approaching and plucking the roll from his grasp. Vergil let him. No further words would be necessary. It was all _there_.

He unrolled the parchment sheets with their due solemnity. There were many, even after Vergil set aside the mandatory diplomatic niceties; his father had had a fortunate habit of storing his drafts, and in this particular correspondence he wrote and rewrote them many times. 

" _Congratulations on the birth of your daughter,_ " Vitto started. " _I dearly wish I could visit while she's fresh off internal brooding—"_

"After that," Vergil said, making an effort not to bounce his heel. It might dislodge more books.

"— _for I have always found the little hands of human offspring to be so delightfully_ — are you kidding me? This is adorable," Vitto said, even as his eyes flickered back and forth, skimming as fast as in his studies. 

Vergil stared as Vitto read, following every twitch of cheek, every raise of eyebrow, every gape of mouth, and knowing exactly what his co-conspirator had just learned. Even the information that Vergil himself thought irrelevant, but which, he knew, Vitto would consider with an excess of care.

The thing was— and Vergil felt like he was having some sort of reverse mental breakdown, but— the thing was that even demons in the Underworld needed replenishing, as a population.

Yes, demonkind was known to harvest human souls to bolster their numbers. But more often than not these souls were shambling riff-raff, easily controlled and devoured, with little self-awareness beyond attacking, feeding, and sometimes fleeing. Harvested souls were cattle wrung dry; amid human souls theirs were the weakest of the weak, the easy pickings, thin and worthless from the start. 

They weren't demons.

There were also, of course, the pests— the pyrobats, the arachnes, the blood-goyles, the trypoxyli. They were little better than human souls, more easily directed but even less self-aware— but they reproduced. They, to use the proper term, _spawned_.

 _Spawning_ covered a wide range of demonic reproduction methods, from mitosis to budding to good old intercourse— and also, for the more powerful and sentient Devils, to littering a battlefield with a gaggle of useless cannon-fodder for wasting Vergil's time. 

That had been the limit of Vergil's understanding on the matter. Sometimes a demon would boast of being the son of so-and-so, but he'd never cared past the stain they left on Yamato's blade. 

He and Dante had been born the human way; there had been pictures and birth certificates, a video tape they were never allowed to watch, and the occasional grousing on Mother's part about her efforts and their ephemeral but extant relation to the uneaten broccoli. If he ever put his thought on the matter, he'd likely conclude that demons bred in litters, like dogs or something.

They did, sometimes. But, according to Father's letters at least, even that went under the heading of _spawning_.

And spawns were made to serve. 

They were mass-produced thralls, tasked with kidnapping humans for their blood, with terrorizing lesser demons into compliance, with buying a few more pathetic seconds of life to Vergil's enemies. They could be very cheap to _spawn_ , if a devil had a need for custom-made pests with short shelf lives. A devil could also put some thought and care into a specimen, an investment of power, to build a quality product with a measure of self-direction. Should it survive long enough, it might even develop an identity, and opinions, and the initiative to flee its master and never report back. It might produce its own spawn.

It might grow painfully aware of its own limitations, and brood over one single spawn that may surpass them. It might invest its everything in this creation, with no expectation of either reward or survival. It might grow so consumed by the endeavor, it would overexert the capabilities of its body without care or thought. It might obsess over its project into completion and far beyond, should it survive to see it through. 

Such a creation was no spawn. It was an _offspring_. And an offspring was—

An offspring was—

An offspring was Nero.

Vergil's entire soul clattered in his chest. 

An offspring was Nero, and any sentient and sapient devil who saw Nero, who saw even the humblest and weakest little attempt at copying Nero, would know him for what he was, which was **_everything_**.

And they would covet him.

As they **_should_**.

And they would flounder and wail, for both Vergil and Nero held an unfathomable advantage over the sorry lot. 

Oh, Father. 

Even you, unmatched amid demonkind, could yearn to grant your spawn _transcendence_.

###

" _Magic gushes forth,_ " Vitto quoted, eventually, as he rearranged the papers in his hands. " _Magic pours forth. For the offspring, and nothing else._ "

"Yes," said Vergil. "It pours."

For feeding the _offspring_. For aiding the _offspring_ in his growth. And for defending the _offspring_ from the inevitable parade of _cretinous undeserving wretches come_ ** _clawing and grasping hungrily at Nero's light—_**

Vergil took a deep, steadying breath. It was too easy to conflate the hypothetical offspring of Father's notes with Nero's sublime warmth.

Father had not yet produced any at the time of his correspondence; his experience on the matter came instead from lingering at the vicinity of a brooding acquaintance's hideout. He'd hunted and stood guard, and maintained lucidity " _through effort I cannot fathom ever matching_ ". 

Said acquaintance had been but that; his Father's aid came not from friendship, of which he'd known little at the time, but from straying too close to the gravitational pull of Nero's light (that is, not _actually_ Nero, but some other demon's beautiful little sun) to remain unenthralled.

His father's sense of honor disdained of stealing another's offspring for his own, back in Hell or in Fortuna. But having caught a glimpse of the half-finished core, he could not quell the instinct that insisted, against all reasoning, that the little creature was in some unexplainable way _his_ to defend. And so he had, circling the outermost edges of the territory, forewarning wanderers and slaughtering the covetous until such a time as he could spare enough wits to disengage without risk of death.

Although a more correct summation of Father's account might have been ' _with_ ** _less_** _risk of death'_.

Or, if one were a real stickler for specificity, ' _with an_ ** _extant_** _chance of survival'_.

That last part was probably what had Vitto glaring needles at him.

"Cortisol," he said, flatly, crossing his arms in medical disapproval. " _Preposterous_ amounts of it. Every time you interrupted your _Magical Nero Time._ "

Vergil almost laughed. Sitting on the floor amid books, in this good a mood, made him feel as featherlight as if he were a kid again. 

"Why _didn't_ you tell me?" Vitto snapped. "I've been assuming all this time that the cause was psychosomatic—"

"Inconsequential," Vergil said, amusement lacing his voice.

"You can't possibly miss it when the cascading backlash of an unfinished whatever-it-is has enough of a _physical_ _component_ that it can induce death on the spot!"

"I can, as a matter of fact," Vergil shrugged. "I've walked off lethal damage more times than I can count. But in this case I believe you are simply _wrong_."

"The _Savior's_ letters say—"

"For _fuck's sake_ , Vitto!" it was Vergil's turn to snap, though with no true anger. "Just call him Sparda! He's no god and he's no angel, he's a demon who fought for his convictions! At least grant him a shred of _respect!_ " 

Vitto looked so taken aback by his vehemence, Vergil forced out a sigh and offered him an apologetic grimace.

"I know you're hardly religious," he said, soothingly. "You have as scientific a mind as this island can produce. But you're still letting this worship cloud your judgment, and we can't afford that. Nero can't afford that. _Isobella_ can't."

Vitto still stared— with some alarm, albeit fading into an air of intense mental analysis. 

At last, he glanced back down at the papers, shuffling through them. "I still fail to see how I misread—"

"Sparda's words, of course. You wouldn't. But you dismissed the witch's."

Vitto froze in stunned guilt.

"Whether because she was a woman or a witch, you paid her less heed," Vergil continued. "Even though Sparda was not merely answering questions, but positing his own."

"But—" Vitto studied the letters in bemusement. "She's a _human_ woman. You can't possibly be implying that witches give birth by inhuman means."

"Her status as a witch is irrelevant," Vergil said. "What we care about is that she be a woman of _Dumary_." 

"And what is Dumary?"

"What is—" Vergil stared. "You— Dumary? The island? Do you really mean to say you don't—"

"Never heard of it," Vitto said, casually shaking his head.

Vergil put his own in his hands, stupefied. Of course. He _wouldn't_. None in Fortuna _would_ , if the Order had its way. Dumary was a threat to their entire doctrine. 

He leapt to his feet, kicking books without care. That soul-clattering excitement was bubbling up again, and he needed to _move_. 

"Dumary," he began, nudging a path amid the books to pace on. " _Dumary_. Unlike Fortuna, they—" he stopped, decided to change tack. "Take Sparda's tale. He held his fellow devils in contempt and fought on humanity's side."

"Yes," said Vitto.

"He," Vergil breathed in deeply, "was not alone in his convictions."

Vitto stared bug-eyed back at the letters.

"He was the strongest devil to ever take such initiative, by orders of magnitude," Vergil continued, resuming his pacing, while Vitto shuffled through the papers with renewed fervor. "But there have ever been those who were strong enough to flee, and weak enough to not be missed. Evolved thralls. Replaceable minions. And with the Underworld sealed, these weaklings could go where their masters couldn't follow."

Vitto's eyes were already glued back onto the witch's first response, reading feverishly.

"And Dumary is where—"

"—a pretender to Mundus' throne was defeated," Vergil said, then stopped and shook his head. "No, let's not get into that. Suffice to say Dumary became a haven. And unlike in Fortuna, there was interbreeding."

Vitto raised his brow, and Vergil smirked at him.

"Sparda gathered in this citadel the greatest human talent of his time, I'm sure," he said. "But he himself had no offspring. I would know them. I'm sure there's rarefied blood here," he waved his hand dismissively, "but it was never his. He would never risk it, so long as he had a responsibility to the island."

Vitto understood. "Because a child would occupy his every waking thought—"

"More than that," Vergil said, pacing again. "He's not being metaphorical. He would neither sleep nor eat nor _move_. I _know_ this. I _feel_ this. And I'm only partially a demon. A true devil would be chained to the offspring's core and unable to stray but a few feet even should they _want_ to. And—" Vergil shrugged helplessly. "—why _would_ they?"

Vitto shook his head ruefully, and then with greater vigor, like a dog shaking itself off. "That's all fascinating, but," and he shuffled further amid the papers, "I still don't see how it relates to your daisy chain of catastrophic magical backlashes and their lethality."

"I am not," Vergil began to answer, "I am— that is—" he tried again, when the gravity of what he was about to say suddenly hit him.

He braced a hand against the wall. "Father," he gasped.

"Are you freaking out?" Vitto asked, uselessly.

" _Am_ I?" Vergil wheezed. His soul was clattering. The world was shifting.

"My conclusion as a medical professional is a big fat yes," Vitto said, despite being a student.

"Fuck you," said Vergil. His fingers were pushing dents into the wallpaper.

"Save that for Isobella," Vitto quipped, calm as all get out, as he dug out the discarded plastic foil of a recently purchased book. "Try breathing into this."

Vergil ignored the offering, shook his head, opened and closed his mouth. It was fact. He had already accepted it. He had, but an hour ago, rejoiced at it. What made a verbal admission feel so monumentally daunting? It was _power_. At the end of the day, it had been but one more power bestowed upon him.

" ** _I'm human_** ," he conceded, before he could think twice. 

There. It was done.

He felt considerably calmer.

"Yes, despite the voice," Vitto said, still emphatically shaking the plastic his way. "Enough to hyperventilate."

"Just—" he waved a spastic hand at the letters, "just _read_."

Vitto read, while Vergil paced. The apartment grew quiet, the silence stirred only by the sounds of evening traffic and the occasional thud of a kicked book. 

Vergil felt a ridiculous bubble of excitement, as if he were a child sitting on a secret, eager to blab, waiting for a peer to tug on a single thread. He also felt— uneasy, irrationally afraid of having misread the letters, of having jumped to an expedient but incorrect conclusion. He wanted confirmation. He wanted Vitto to look up and hyperventilate as well.

Bastard took his time, though, and when he looked up, he was still the soul of serenity.

"I always did wonder," he said, carefully restacking the letters, "what would come of Nero had you never returned." 

And just like that, Vergil went feverish with satisfaction. 

"Yes," he said, light-headed.

"That part about them usually dying with the parent, that had me—"

"Yes," Vergil repeated, through grinning teeth. Waiting.

"Yes, I mean, a higher rate of survival, but not by much..." Vitto continued, slowly, tapping the letters lightly on top of a book stack. A smile tugged at his lips. He was drawing it out. "But for once humans get to be the species with the shorter incubation period."

"He would have been fine," Vergil said. Blurted out, even, unable to contain himself. " _Fine_ ," he repeated, in dumb, giddy disbelief.

"Yes," Vitto said— and finally, he, too, was laughing in relief. "Funny how that works out, huh. We _do_ tend to come out with our pieces already in place. Add in some care and nutrition and everything will grow without prompt. Even a magical core, inherited from a magical parent."

"And he would be fine," Vergil said, again, hands clutching at each other, dizzy with euphoria. 

"Yes, he'd have been just fine," Vitto agreed, amusement in his voice.

"With or without me," Vergil continued.

"Yes—"

"Even if we were— even if we had—" Vergil pushed a palm over his aching sternum, "I could die and he would have been—"

"Great news, considering you remain a lunatic," Vitto said, quickly. "Avoid it regardless."

"Yes, but— he would be _fine_ ," Vergil insisted, "and _safe_ , even if anything were to happen to me, I could die knowing MY SON—"

A tendon long taut loosened without warning, and Vergil sunk blissfully into the current.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so basically Vitto has just watched as Vergil ragdolled onto a pile of books mid-sentence


	32. Nero

Power poured out of him, bright and raw and a year compressed, and it spread outward like ripples on still water, like air in vacuum. For a year he'd held his breath in bucking lungs, and his relieved exhale now expanded to fill every cranny on the island.

It flooded through streets and over houses and into windows until it found his son.

His son. _His_ son. His son, his _son_ , his **_son_**. His, his, his, his _child_ , his, _his_ , his son, his son, his **son** , his his _his his_ ** _his_** , his boy, his, and _his_ and _his_ and _his_ and _his_ and _his_ and.

His breath stilled, then contracted between the two in a snapping thunderclap. It had no form, in much the same way eternity had no form. One might conceptualize it as a chain, if one were a fool— or a cord, an umbilicus, a connection. Perhaps if Vergil had the luxury of physically holding his son in his arms and lever letting go, it might have felt similarly in his heart.

But that was not yet the case. And after a year of struggle, suspended between conflicting obsessions— _you must **claim** him, you must **conceal** him, you must **love** him, you must **keep your distance**_ — it felt to Vergil less like a thing that was than a thing that _wasn't_.

The space between them. The distance he'd had to maintain, for his son his son _his son_ 's safety. The half a city that Vergil had religiously maintained, lest he lost his nerve, lest Sanctus' eyes caught a glimpse of his boy his boy **_his_**.

The city still existed, probably. But right now Vergil was— standing waist deep in a lake of purest water. Kneeling amid the flowers of the most vibrant garden. Standing at the pinnacle of the highest spire.

And Nero rested in his palms. 

Curled on a floating leaf; nestled amid the petals of a rose bud; ever so gently coaxed out of the velvety sky. And he was so _small_ , so achingly beautiful, so delightfully and delicately carved into _the most perfect shape_.

And he was his.

 _Vergil_ was _his_. He was father, father to Nero, the father of his son, his overwhelmingly beautiful little star of a **son** , his cosmic flower. Oh what a wondrous, impossible thing, to hold such a tiny sliver of infinity asleep in his palms! The entire world could not have contained such potential. It could barely contain Vergil's love.

But as he gazed adoringly upon his treasure, Vergil was suddenly assailed by a transcendental epiphany.

A part of him had known what to expect. Had long awaited this moment, envisioned it even, in delirious fits and spurts. And this part had known that, once his son his son his _son_ lay cradled in his cupped hands, he could Speak a Name and the Name would give his little light Shape and Purpose, guiding his development into his ideal Form. 

But Nero was perfect.

Vergil's wings stood half-open, stunned in place. He stared and stared and. But. Nero was. He was? His son his son his son his son his son

was

perfect

...? 

Vergil felt his lips Open, and then Close. He could still bestow a Name upon Nero. But Nero already had his own (perfect) Shape, and to impose another might result in...

...breaking the one he already had. No, no, no, it was inconceivable, anathema, pure and simple. And frankly, it might not even stick. His boy his jewel was already so sturdy in his diminutiveness. He was sure to grow willful and rebellious, _strong_ , and oh, Vergil couldn't _wait_. 

As for a Purpose— that, too, he was filling to perfection: to bring joy to a wretched world in which not a single soul dwelt that was worthy of it. He accomplished it by his very existence, and it fell to Vergil to ensure he could continue unhampered.

Yes, he decided, examining his splendid little miracle from up closer. Perfectly Shaped. Filled with Wondrous Purpose. Even before Vergil held him and beheld him, even back when Vergil wandered purposeless and adrift in a meaningless world without knowledge of him, Nero had himself chosen the Form he aspired to reach, and it was so, so _beautiful_.

He crooned gently to the sleeping, impossible child.

It was Good. He was Satisfied. And he told Nero as much.

He told him: You are my son and you are good and you are precious and you are mine and I love you so much and you are so good and I love you and I will slaughter everyone who ever ever _ever_ dared lay a miserable finger upon you 

and his son his boy his miracle his impossible child pushed a petal of his rosebud aside to glare up at Vergil with a baleful eye, and said:

"Don't be _silly_."

And Nero turned around and nestled deeper in his cradle of light and fell back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demon Vergil, out of his fucking mind: Daddy's leedle BOI!!!!!!!! Who do you want me to kill? Daddy will kill anyone, daddy will kill EVERYONE, daddy will fight the sun, just say the word and--  
> Nero, rising from his nap in annoyance: how about NO ONE. HUH. HOW ABOUT YOU JUST SETTLE DOWN AND LET ME SLEEP. SHOVE THAT IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT BITCH I'M A SLEEPY BABY AND I DON'T LIKE MURDER I LIKE _NAPS_  
>  Demon Vergil, out of his fucking mind: **What a sweetheart**


	33. The Awakened Father, part 1

Vergil was born anew.

He was born anew in a heap, collapsed on a pile of strewn books, in the gloom of Vittorino's apartment. All lights were off; outside the windows, moonlit buildings flashed under the headlights of the occasional car.

Vitto sat slumped on a stack of books, candlestick in hand, looking just about ready to star as Poe's titular raven. 

"Hey," said Vitto, dubiously.

Vergil sat up slowly, taking stock of himself. He felt... light. He felt _good_ , like he hadn't in a long time. He'd grown used to the constant strain of resisting himself, and it felt almost irresponsibly indulgent, now, to not be engaged in internal battle. 

He felt so _whole_.

"What happened," he asked Vitto absently, still mostly taken by the suffusing peace in his veins.

"You collapsed mid-sentence," Vitto said, "and then the island's entire electric grid went offline. Then," he added, emphatically, "you burst into blinding light _exactly_ as the sound of the substation's explosion reached this area, and gave me a literal heart attack."

"You seem alive enough to me," Vergil said, opening and closing his fingers experimentally.

"Your concern is touching," said Vitto, rising from his seat and setting his candle down. He seemed more relaxed. "Care to tell _me_ what happened?"

"You're not done, though, are you?" Vergil asked back.

Vitto shot him a suspicious look, which Vergil regally ignored. "How long was I out?" he asked, when Vitto kept his silence.

"...almost an hour," Vitto said, ruefully, at last. "The lights might not be back on before tomorrow."

Vergil nodded slowly. "What about the phone?"

"Phone lines are fine," Vitto assured him.

Vergil rose to his feet at last, striding to Vitto's wall-mounted device, and unhooked the receiver with a well-placed jab of Yamato's hilt. 

His fingers glided over the plastic buttons, and soon Miss Pascallini was picking up with her no-nonsense _hello_.

"Ma'am," he said, with no preambles. "Has there been any summons for me from Headquarters?"

"No," she said. "Where _have_ you been since the blackout?"

"At a friend's house," he said. "I fell asleep at some point, and he neglected to wake me up."

Miss Pascallini's voice took a suspicious tone. "Is that the same friend who gave you _medicine_ this morning?"

"Yes," said Vergil, shooting Vitto a studying look. "Would you like to talk to him?"

" _Yes_ ," she answered, threateningly, and Vergil tossed the receiver at Vitto's fumbling hands.

He tuned out the sounds of Vitto's stammering and Miss Pascallini's haranguing, casting his senses further out across the city (it came so _easily_ ). There were no invasive auras, no hostile presences, despite the prime opportunity. He had blazed like a sun across the island and the small fry had made itself scarce, perhaps fearing the heat. Vergil appreciated their consideration. 

They squirmed their way out of the city instead, towards the Forest and the Castle, where bigger fry hunkered in wait. There was no sign of movement from their part. 

"No, uh, I— see— but see, he— he was having a panic attack, and— yes, yes, but— yes, he tends to have them, yes, it's a concern of mine too. Ma'am, I am a student doctor—" Vitto winced away from the receiver— "Ma'am, please, you're talking too fast—"

Vergil gestured for the receiver back.

"Vergilwantstotalktoyou," Vitto said, hastily, tossing the receiver away as if it were on fire. 

"Ma'am," Vergil said, interrupting some spiel about medical irresponsibility, "I appreciate your concern, but you're spooking away the first friend I ever made."

Vitto's furious glower turned almost bashful.

"Oh, dear," Miss Pascallini said, her voice softening considerably. "I got carried away, the poor lad. Let me apologize to him then, I know he meant well."

"Maybe later," he said, to Vitto's visible relief. "I need to call Headquarters now and inquire as to whether I'm needed."

"Well you _shouldn't_ be," she said, with conviction. "Everything is nice and quiet for a change as far as I know and my sources are _good_."

"Nevertheless," Vergil argued, "it will reflect badly on me if I don't."

She huffed a frustrated sigh. "Ain't _that_ the truth. I won't keep you then, but take care and don't stay out of doors, some humans are demons of their own sort."

"I will take care," Vergil said with a smirk, before pushing the hook down with a finger.

"What's this about?" Vitto asked, finally, but Vergil interrupted him with a raised palm.

The number for the office at Headquarters was something else that came to him more easily than he expected, all the more considering he had never had cause to call it. It rang twice before being cut off by Filippo's gruff greeting. 

"This is Vergil," he said. "Should I report for duty?"

"Have you been to orientation?" the sergeant asked.

"No."

"Then don't let me see your hide before Monday," Filippo groused, hanging up on his face.

And that was that. He was accounted for, should he need it. A little late, perhaps, although there were plenty of places in the city without phone lines to begin with, and trekking in the dark to find one could well excuse an entire hour. And there was always Sanctus' neck to point Yamato against, should it come to that.

"Vergil?" Vitto asked, as he stoically hooked the phone.

"What happened when I fell unconscious?" Vergil asked again, in return. 

Vitto pressed his lips together, his eyes unreadable. 

"What did you see?" Vergil insisted— and then shot him a rueful little smirk. "I do think I know, but. This information would be of help."

Vitto looked mildly dubious. "In which way?"

Vergil examined his hand once again. He felt light. He felt _right_.

"In deciding whether I should try it again."

Vitto studied him in silence for a few seconds.

"You became an angel," he said, finally. Defensively.

An _angel_ , he'd said. Vergil hummed thoughtfully, still studying his fingers. He'd just berated Vitto for being biased by religion, and already the man was backsliding.

"You... don't look surprised," Vitto mumbled, uncertainly, as Vergil walked past him and to the mostly unoccupied area beyond the sofas. 

He wasn't surprised, no. Given the expenditure of power involved, and the fact that his marrow was no longer making a concerted attempt to crawl out of his bones, that he'd triggered while unconscious was but the obvious conclusion. Still, it was nice to have it confirmed.

Vergil had just scorched _Sparda Is Here_ across the landscape. And since the deed was already done—

He triggered again.

###

Arcane power caressed silkily across his veins, warm and bracing. Where it had been repressed and estranged, it was now once again his; he was finally as one in body, soul, and focus, two halves rejoined into a greater whole. 

Yet even his demon form couldn't help but be changed by the reality of this past year; that, too, he had known at once upon waking. 

He had surely and inevitably been made anew in all forms. 

Vergil studied his claws. With a tensing of tendons, they extended just far enough past his fingertips to score a few lines on some unsuspecting face; otherwise they sat flush as human nails, their true thickness imperceptible. 

It used to take a few awkward seconds, early on, for him to adapt his sword grip to their length— and now, after years of training until the shift became second nature, they were no longer a concern. An improvement by all accounts.

Exposed claws could result in all sorts of little accidents. He wouldn't have been adverse to ripping them off entirely... but this would do.

His gaze moved down his arms, to his chest. As usual, his human clothes had shifted alongside his body, the proximity to and intensity of his power infusing them and assimilating them into his form. 

No spikes or protuberances to be seen on his arms, not even where his dress uniform had been adorned with useless frills. The fabric had coalesced into thick demonic hide, pliant in parts and hardened in others without hampering mobility; Yamato hugged his forearm as it had always had. 

The front of his coat was armored in thick, tight-fitted carapace— which he unfurled into vast wings, bathing Vitto's apartment in a soft blue glow. 

A crack down his sternum revealed the gleaming light within, softly breathing in tandem with his lungs; the same glow coated the inside of his wings, scattered in millions of tiny scales, fuzzy as the wings of a moth.

He released the trigger, satisfied, and plunged the room back into gloomy candlelight. 

"...you can do it at will," said Vitto, stunned.

"Yes," Vergil admitted. Always could, he didn't add. Vitto was already dealing with a religious crisis of some sort. 

Absently Vergil wondered if Vitto would ever call him a dramatic lunatic again.

"Um," Vitto started, almost meekly, as he fidgeted with the nearest book. "Well, uh. I'm assuming this changes a few things—"

"It changes _everything_ ," Vergil corrected him.

"Starting with Nero, of course," Vitto forged on, his voice growing in conviction. "You did the _thing_ , I'm assuming."

"Yes, the parental claim was established," he confirmed.

"Oh _good_ , you can say the word _parent_ without shoving your head through the nearest wall!" Vitto snapped, tossing his book down. "Here I thought it was still an issue, since you haven't mentioned him _once_ so far!"

Vergil's eyebrows shot up. "Are you freaking out, Vitto?" he asked, impressed and amused in equal measures.

" _Yes! Kind of!_ " Vitto shouted, flapping his hands as if they were wet.

"...well, don't be," Vergil told him, lamely. He wasn't a student doctor, he wasn't trained for emergency treating of sudden vapors. Their positions were usually reversed in this matter.

" _Shut up!_ " Vitto snapped again. "No, really, shut up, don't you even dare joke about it," he continued, though Vergil hadn't so much as considered doing so. "I'm fine, I can work with this, this is nothing compared to being replacement surgery assistant on zero notice and only theoretical knowledge—"

Vergil recognized the babbling from being on the other side of it, and abruptly wished he could not.

"This is surprisingly harrowing to witness," he told Vitto, in the interest of being earnest.

"Fuck off! _Just fuck off!_ " Vitto screamed. "Fuck off and ask it!! _For the Savior's sake!!_ "

"Ask what?" Vergil echoed, feeling vaguely mystified.

" _About Nero!!_ "

Oh. 

_Oh_ , poor Vitto. No wonder he was so agitated. 

"He is fine," Vergil said, in as soothing a tone as he knew to make. 

"And you know that _how?_ " Vitto snapped. 

Vergil stared. He had said it but a few seconds previous, did Vitto not— how agitated _was_ he?

"...the connection is complete," he repeated, just in case.

"And what's _that_ got to do with—" Vitto stopped then, finally narrowing his eyes with some of his usual sharpness. "Connection?" He repeated.

"Yes, connection," he said, coaxingly.

It was Vitto's turn to stare.

Vergil left him to it, sitting down on the sofa spot he'd previously vacated of books. Now that his mind was clear, there was so much he had to think about—

"So you're telling me," said Vitto, suddenly, "that the magical 'claim' thing involves a direct connection to Nero somehow."

Vergil blinked at him. "Yes," he said, slowly.

"This would have been nice to know around ten months ago," Vitto groused.

"I thought it was obvious," Vergil pointed out.

"Not to me!" Vitto complained. "Are you aware of how much poetry you wax when you talk about Nero? That's a lot of metaphors to sift through. Forget it," he whipped a hand in a frustrated gesture. "Look, I don't know what information your magic is giving you, but I called the orphanage when the lights went down."

It occurred to Vergil that he had no idea what the outside of their moment had looked like on Nero's side.

"And?" he asked quickly.

"The blackout happened in the middle of movie night," Vitto started, "and once the kids stopped throwing the usual racket and the sisters could do a headcount, they found him _asleep_ on the sofa exactly as he had been."

Vergil's shoulders relaxed. "So they noticed nothing," he said, softly.

"They noticed that he _slept through the racket_ ," Vitto pointed out acerbically— only to relax as well. "But he complained and brushed them off when they shook him, so no one was worried except for me. Not even you," he added, ruefully.

Vergil gave him a sympathetic shrug.

"Well," Vitto said, sitting back on his book perch with a sigh. "What's this connection telling you, then? In general?"

"Mostly," said Vergil, dryly, "that we're running out of time."

Vitto eyed him suspiciously.

"Are you being a dramatic loon again?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: Can't believe I freed so much processing power just by killing the "don't love baby" app. I'm a gaming rig again. Time to speedrun a few bitches


	34. The Awakened Father, part 2

Having claimed Nero as his, they were now connected, and Nero's dormant core would begin to quicken as it absorbed Vergil's free-floating excess magic. Soon his physical abilities would far outpace that of his peers, and his awakened magic would grow conspicuous by degrees until minor demons approached to assess this new threat.

Once that happened, the proverbial cat would be out of the bag. The scent of Sparda's blood was unmistakable. They would seek to snuff it. It was a matter of time, and Vergil himself did not know enough to gauge how long they still had.

"Are you proposing we expedite the petition, then?" Vitto asked. "You're going to 'find' Nero, and push for Isobella's release?"

"Where are we going to live?" Vergil asked back.

Vitto froze.

Vergil shot a meaningful look at the dark, book-strewn cavern of Vitto's asthma-trap of an apartment. "Are you suggesting we move in here? My answer hasn't changed. If anything, my refusal is more vehement than ever. Your mother isn't fumigating the place anymore, but she still has a key— and if she hadn't, this would be a cockroach nest. Could you even maintain this apartment in a fit state for a child, much less an ill woman?"

The glare Vitto directed at him was filled with mulish resentment, but little challenge. They both knew Vergil was right.

"I have been _sleepwalking_ , Vitto," Vergil lamented, with a sigh. "The question of living arrangements kept rising to my attention, and I kept reacting to it as if wading through molasses. I should have been investigating apartments ages ago."

"Apartments?" Vitto echoed dubiously. 

"Yes, apartments," said Vergil. "Somewhere in the town center, where patrols are constant and close at hand and the buildings are warded from their very foundations. I want a minimum of ten floors of shielding between Nero and any tripoxilus conglomeration, and if the floors aren't warded, I will personally break into them to do it myself."

"That won't come in cheap, you know," Vitto pointed out. "Take this building— it's the cheapest in the area that can still pretend to be classy. It's owned by a pal of my mother's who gave her a 'friendly' price, and she still waves the discounted rent at my face to guilt-trip me about it." He cringed. "Let me tell you, it's high enough to work."

"Yes," Vergil said. "And that means we require access to Sanctus' pockets."

Vitto's eyebrows rose. "So you're—"

"No," Vergil interrupted him immediately. "That is, not until I'm in a much better position than the one I'm in now. The last thing I want is for Sanctus to assume he has leverage upon me— or worse, to give him any. See, Vitto," he continued, "it occurred to me, now that I'm in greater command of my faculties, that in my caution I overlooked a significant aspect of my previous visit to this island."

"More significant than Nero?" Vitto quipped.

Vergil raised a contemptuous brow. " _Context_ , Vittorino."

"I kid," Vitto laughed, mildly, even as Vergil magnanimously waved him off. 

"At some point during my stay, I confronted Sanctus," he began, and then glanced curiously at Vitto. "Have I mentioned this before? I feel as if I did."

"Not really, but I assumed it anyway," said Vitto with a shrug. "Since you so readily disdained of the Vicar in our first acquaintance. Clearly you had first hand knowledge."

Vergil chuckled. "Of a sort," he conceded. " _Confront_ might be too strong a word— Sanctus may be a conniving snake, but he's still just an old man. Anyway, I learned of his appointment as Vicar and paid him a visit during his so-called _meditation_. He'd been _riffling_ ," Vergil snarled, "through my father's study, dragging furniture and using demon arts to find seals. He huffed in his search like a hungry mutt. And I," Vergil cringed vaguely, "spoke some words I thought were very clever at the time. None of relevance, thankfully for my pride," he hastily added.

"But...?" Vitto said, coaxingly.

Vergil chuckled. "But nothing. I simply recalled the fact that I never told him my name."

"Oh," said Vitto, and then, " _Oh_."

"Had I been in command of my wits," Vergil continued, "I would have spent the year rising through the ranks and investigating the mid-level bureaucracy. I'd have dug through all the scheming involving the upper echelons, and not just those which concerned Nero. I would have investigated the Conclave itself. I would have," he smirked, "a complete portfolio of blackmail ready to deploy at a moment's notice."

Vitto leaned back, impressed.

"Wow, that's—"

"Thorough?" Vergil asked.

"I was going to say _evil_ , but that works too," Vitto said. 

"Is it, though, when it's for a good cause?" Vergil asked, mildly.

"I'd be happy to argue that, but you might misunderstand," Vitto retorted, just as calmly. "I don't believe intentions override actions. I just also happen to think the Church needs their feet put to the fire. Count me in on your evil plan."

Vergil chuckled softly. "Contain your eagerness," he said, in amusement. "That's all conjecture. The opportunity has passed. I have a few ideas, but I suspect we'll do plenty improvising. Firstly—" he drummed his fingers on Yamato's hilt, "I must focus on Supreme Commander Tridentino. Both Paolo and Filippo recommend him highly; I should put some trust in their judgment. Should I find him clean, I will focus my efforts on raising my reputation as a knight—" 

He paused in thought. 

"I will have to learn the Knights' hierarchical structure, won't I?" he mused aloud.

Vitto didn't quip back, instead settling on his seat and studying Vergil with a careful, evaluating stare.

"...seeing you on the ball is excitingly frightening," he commented, apropos of nothing. 

Vergil almost choked in his laughter. "Ah," he sighed, shaking his head. "You truly are Isobella's brother. And speaking of," he added, searching the dark walls for Vitto's ugly clock, "I should go back to the tower. We can continue this talk there."

"Oh, but," Vitto flicked his wrist to uncover his watch, "it's eight right now. They're just getting started with the evening rounds."

Vergil almost did something as inelegant as stopping halfway up from his seat with his behind in the air.

"...about that," he said, slowly, once he'd completed his motion.

###

Vitto actually held his breath as the shuffle of nuns wandered out of the neighboring cell. His eyes bored into the door; he knelt by the cot with an arm thrown protectively over Isobella's body, tense as if ready to pounce on any nun who stepped in. 

He seemed to consider the Mother's mandate to be less of a boon than it was an insult. Which was understandable, truly, but quite unlike his usual practical demeanor. Vergil assumed his pride as a healer was— _injured_ , perhaps— by the weaponizing of Isobella's health against such mild dissent.

He'd also loudly classified Sister Brava's implied death as "way too convenient". Vergil was inclined to agree. At the moment, however, he was less focused on suspicious obits than he was on the matter of documentation and how he should ensure there was a trail of it to be found.

" _Unbelievable_ ," Vitto hissed, as the evening sisters tromped once more past the door, their footsteps belying tension. "They're really just going to— to _obey_?"

"At first? Yes," Vergil mused. "Mother Clemency is sure to be scrutinizing them for further dissent. And truly, she has no choice but to do so, after making her contentious demands. She must be aware by now that she's jeopardized her credibility to uphold her authority— should she also lose face, she will have nothing left."

"Except for _human decency_ ," Vitto groused, as he turned back to Isobella and fussed at her covers. 

"Chin up, Vitto," Vergil said, calmly turning the camplight back on. "The Savior _is_ looking after Isobella, right here, right _now_. Mother Clemency is staking her reputation on a plan that has no chance of success." 

Vitto did not seem particularly cheered. Vergil left him to his grumbling. They'd had something resembling a fruitful discussion on arrival, once Vitto's indignation had cooled down; it seemed another cooling period was in order.

He recalled their conclusions as he browsed the rolls of ancient correspondence. First there was the matter of Isobella's release inquiries— or rather the absence of any coming from _him_ , specifically. It would look suspicious if he stepped forward with Nero in tow and demanded her release after an entire year of not displaying any interest; on the other hand, he couldn't afford to spend much time building up a request history. 

The simplest solution was to backdate a few and sneak them into whatever archive such requests were kept— assuming they were not all trashed on arrival. Vitto would locate the bureaucratic dead-end; the job of actually planting the entries would naturally fall to Vergil. 

Second but even more urgent was the matter of Nero's safety. The likelihood of Vergil securing a home before his little core quickened were quite frankly nil— their best recourse was to ensure that the orphanage and its surroundings were kept under constant _and_ competent guard.

To that end, Vergil could either tamper with the patrol routes, become the one dictating patrol routes, or curry enough favor with Supreme Commander Tridentino to influence his decisions regarding patrol routes. He intended to work on all three methods simultaneously, and to have results before the month was done. _Nero **would** be protected_. 

Third came the acquisition of funds for their future domicile. Vergil had a truly ridiculous amount of unused cash; some he kept in his wallet, but most of it lay buried in an emergency getaway stash under his and Isobella's church. It wasn't enough to afford an apartment, but it was a significant amount nonetheless.

Vitto had tossed a notepad at Vergil and demanded he take it all to a bank. 

Thus the plan was made for his accumulated money: shove it all into a savings account. Rise through the Order's rankings, keep saving up his higher wages, get some good credit. Pick out a few housing options, look into furniture prices, etc. Then he could either take a massive loan and have Sanctus pay for it, or skip the loan and just force Sanctus to pay for everything. It would depend on how the previous matters unfolded.

And throughout, Vergil would dig up through Sanctus' contacts for his accomplices and support base. 

There was _no way_ Sanctus would not scheme against his family once he learned it existed; any crook worth his salt would correctly identify them as Vergil's primary concern. As long as Sanctus had a need to control Vergil and a reason to doubt his compliance, they would be under his scrutiny. And he would _want_ to control Vergil, as well as have every reason under the sun to doubt his compliance— starting with how Vergil would likely introduce himself with a demand for money.

He must be ready to eliminate the whole corrupt lot as soon as Sanctus became a liability.

...but in the meantime they sat in silent companionship within Isobella's cell, Vitto fuming, Vergil leafing through Sparda's remaining letters. And it was in the middle of this peaceful quietude that a deliberate shuffle caught Vergil's ear, somewhere out in the corridor.

Vergil stiffened, then slowly set the letter down; Vitto rose from his half-asleep huddle in alarm. 

The sounds were growing more noticeable. Someone was _definitely_ approaching. Vitto squinted at his watch in confusion— it was past midnight, hardly an acceptable hour for nuns to be up— then up at Vergil with a look of pure dismay. There was no time to clean up and hide. 

Vergil rose to his feet and turned the camplight off. 

This, for once, was a situation he was well-acquainted with— the bright-cold moment when pursuit caught up, and avoidance was no longer an option. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and better that it happened in his presence; flight and concealment might postpone the danger, but only direct confrontation could truly end it.

As the keyhole clattered with the turn of a key, he planted himself before the door and rested his palms upon Yamato's hilt. 

The door swung open, revealing a small, awkward shadow— and Vergil greeted the newcomer with a bouquet of glowing blades aimed at their throat. Even more bloomed around him, over his shoulder, at his back, casting the cell in bright blue light, each and all turned to the interloper. 

"I am Vergil," he announced, "Son of Sparda."

Sister Succor dropped her flashlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: Nobody is coming, the Mother has too much to lose to let them  
> Sister Succor: hello sir. i cannot be tamed


	35. Sister Succor

To her credit, Sister Succor did not scream. 

She did stare wide-eyed at Vergil's bright blue-limned form, looming over her in white-clad glory. In one hand she still held the key, while her other arm cradled a bundle in the crook of her elbow; the hand that had dropped her flashlight was still slack in surprise.

Her eyes flickered to and fro between the glowing blades. "You—" she asked weakly, "you are who...?"

"Vergil, son of Sparda," he repeated— and then dismissed his blades and took a step back. "I've been expecting you, Sister Succor."

Not as such, but her coming was hardly a surprise in retrospect. No one would approach at this hour except to clandestinely care for Isobella, and Sister Succor had already proven herself willing to defy the Mother.

The nun stepped in gingerly, bright spooked eyes searching the darkness, her shadow stretching before her dropped lantern; when Vergil turned the camplight back on, she all but jumped.

The sight of Isobella's medical paraphernalia seemed to have her more than a little confused. Vitto waved at her from the bed; she stared back in bafflement.

"Yes, this is weird," Vitto conceded. "And never mind Vergil, he's being hyperbolic— he's not the _Son of the Savior_ , just his _direct descendant_."

Really? Vergil raised his brows momentarily, before settling on a straight face. Vitto had much greater social acumen, so in this matter at least it behooved him to follow his lead—

—although, had he ever clarified the matter? He'd never quite corrected that assumption, but surely he'd let the truth slip however many times during his delirious rambles—

—which Vitto had already admitted to subjecting to liberal amounts of reinterpretation.

Oh. 

No matter. He could work with that.

"As the evidence shows," he told the nun, presenting the cell with a gloved hand, "my healing does not extend to bodies not my own. For Isobella's sake, I have conscripted the aid of her brother Vittorino, a student of human medicine."

Vitto waved again.

"I was present when Mother Clemency played her repugnant gambit," he continued, pacing slowly around the cell. "Rest assured that I do not hold you responsible for it. On the contrary, I thank you— by interceding on Isobella's behalf, you have eased our burden considerably.

He stopped and leaned against the far wall.

"However foul her intentions," he concluded, "Mother Clemency's game works to our advantage."

"I'm— confused," said Succor, meekly. 

"Here, sit down," said Vitto, leaving his spot on the bed to push the camp chair closer to the woman. "What did you bring?"

"Oh," the Sister mumbled as Vitto tugged her bundle gently away from her arms. "It's just... soup."

Indeed, wrapped in a towel was an earthenware container, wrapped in clingfilm. The Sister looked embarrassed, even a little humiliated, as she sunk into the seat. 

"That's—" _adorable_ , Vergil almost said. "...appreciated, Sister Succor, truly. It is very thoughtful of you."

" _Very_ thoughtful," Vitto agreed, as he nestled the container on the fold-out table and unwrapped the vaguely moist film. "I've been wondering if we shouldn't get her started on a proper liquid diet. Ooh, perfect," he exclaimed as he raised the lid. "Very thin. Good call."

Sister Succor perked up. "It's the one we serve our eldest Sisters," she said, before shrinking again. 

Vitto unrolled a huge antique spoon from the Sister's towel, then sipped from the pot. "No salt," he said, with incongruous approval. "Bit of an oily aftertaste," he added, more dubiously, after smacking his tongue a few times. "Chicken, right?" he asked the sister.

"Yes," she nodded, hurriedly.

"The whole pot is a bit too much for her right now," he said, businesslike, "but we can give her some and see how she adapts."

"I was—," the Sister began, hurriedly, before shrinking again, "...I was going to feed her just one spoon every five minutes," she added, her voice lowering to a mumble.

"Which is how you feed the starving," Vitto said, nodding approvingly, "but not one in these circumstances. We're still drip-feeding her _water_. So, we are going to _drip-feed_ her this soup. Vergil," he said, turning to him almost too casually, "could you go fetch the syringe packs? I'd rather not put soup in the eyedroppers."

Without a word, Vergil unsheathed Yamato and sliced a cross flush with the ceiling, then jumped up into the rafters; a quick roll brought him right to the box of disposable syringes, which he swiped in the same movement that brought him back down the still open passage. The maneuver took less than two seconds.

Vitto did not react to his ostentatious display, or let on at all the fact that the request was but an excuse for Vergil to impress his capabilities upon the newcomer. And she was duly impressed, staring wide-eyed as Vergil wordlessly shoved the box at Vitto.

Vitto picked a modestly-sized specimen and dismissed him with a quiet "thank you".

After a quiet minute of watching Vitto fill 5ml of syringe with soup and slowly drip it into Bella's cheek, the Sister looked up again, every inch the wet bird.

"...is that," she began, hesitantly, "is that how you make your way here? You— open that gate and bring things in?"

"Yes," said Vergil, even as Vitto said, "Well, yes, but—"

"Then!" she perked up in her chair. "Can you— can you get into the other rooms?"

###

"No," said Vergil, categorically. "Absolutely not. It'll fuck you up."

"It's my duty as a healer," Vitto said, packing eyedroppers and syringes in his bag with entirely too much serenity. 

"You can barely handle the strain of four trips a day," Vergil insisted. "I am _not_ subjecting you to twenty more _._ "

"We should have been doing it from the start," Vitto insisted. "Think of those other poor ladies—"

Vergil planted the butt of Yamato's sheath on the floor. "I emphatically _refuse_ to think of them," he announced.

Vitto cocked his head with a weird frown. 

"You don't mean that," he said.

"I will not think of them," Vergil repeated with great dignity, "I do not care about them, and I refuse to look at them."

"Because you'll care if you do," Vitto guessed.

" _Exactly_ ," Vergil said, raising his chin. 

"You put such effort into being a bastard," Vitto lamented.

"Nero is my priority, Isobella is my priority," Vergil continued, "and we must not be side-tracked. This atrocity will be brought down in due course, and they shall have their relief then. Right now, too much is at stake."

"I'm sorry," the Sister spoke, meekly, startling the two into silence. "I wasn't aware that there was a strain involved. I spoke out of turn."

"You didn't, it was a fair question," Vitto hastened to say. 

"Human bodies do not seem to handle arcane travel with much grace," Vergil explained, a little more gently than he meant to. "Otherwise, we would have spirited her away long ago. This entire tower is a gob of spit in the eye of Sparda, and being in here fills me with rage."

In truth, he had grown somewhat used to the place— mostly due to the little comforts they had gathered within, as well as Vitto's steady companionship. He held no illusions that this neutrality could withstand a visit to the prisoner next door, however. He was enjoying his emotional stability, and had no desire to upset it.

Sister Succor looked up with hopeful eyes.

"What if I were the one to—"

"I'd sooner put Vitto through that," Vergil said immediately. The Sister was a sad wet bird past her physical prime, god only knew what the trip might do to her.

"Great, that's decided!" Vitto closed his bag with a snap.

"Good luck squeezing through the gap under the doors," Vergil quipped, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms with wide, lazy movements.

Vitto stared at him.

He stared back.

Vitto turned to the Sister.

"This may be a silly question, but," he began, "you have a key, don't you?"

The Sister jumped slightly, staring at Vitto in surprise, before she dug said key from her sleeve. It was a big, antique iron thing.

"Could it open the other doors?" he asked, but Succor was shaking her head before he was done speaking.

"Each door has its own key," she said. "Each key has a single copy, and the Claviger must account for all keys at all times." She closed her hand around it. "Sister Claviger has risked much by granting me this opportunity."

"And she will be risking _more_ ," Vergil growled, pushing off the wall. 

The Sister tried to hide behind Vitto, who looked at Vergil in surprise. 

Vergil would be surprised at himself, too, if he stopped to think about it. So he didn't; instead, he strode to Sister Succor and swiped the key from her nerveless fingers, clutching it in his own. 

He focused raw magic in his clenched fist, enough to heat the iron, and then applied a more deliberate focus to cool it back down. When he unfurled his fingers, the key showed no sign of warping.

He tossed it at Vitto, who caught it with minimum fumbling.

"Good, it's safe to touch," Vergil said, tugging it out of his grasp to offer it, politely, to Sister Succor. "Tell Sister Claviger that Sparda bids you bring him all keys to this tower," he said, as the Sister hesitantly took the keys back. "She will feel the power in this key and know it to be true. Tomorrow," he turned to Vitto, "we'll find a locksmith who works overnight— more than one, to ensure all keys are copied and returned before they're missed. Satisfied?"

Vitto grinned.

"Only just," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: Time for all the prisoners to be blessed i guess  
> Vitto: It'll be months before we make a noticeable difference but yeah


	36. The Agony of Leaving

So it was arranged for Sister Succor to return with the keys the next night; in the meantime, Vitto ate some soup ("What? I'm hungry") and filled a pair of syringes with it, enough to last a couple hours of drip-feeding. The rest was to be sent back. Sister Succor herself should return before she was missed— the lights could return at any time, and the Mother might wish to do a headcount then, if she hadn't already.

"And if you begin to feel ill," said Vitto, "or if others around you seem to, take this immediately— don't think twice— and let us know."

He handed her a single pill in a small ziploc bag.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want to keep the soup?" she asked, looking from Vitto to Vergil.

"No, really, Isobella is in no condition to take the whole thing," Vitto insisted. "Maybe someday."

"I am counting on your discretion," said Vergil, with a shallow bow.

The Sister curtsied back, hefted the rewrapped pot, her flashlight and the key, and shuffled meekly out the door.

Vergil pushed it close at her back, and she locked it from outside.

"I guess we have a co-conspirator," Vitto commented, once the sound of her footsteps had faded.

Vergil nodded. Why not, truly? They'd been operating as a duo for far too long, and he would soon have a lot on his plate. This was a very convenient addition. 

"I'll figure out how to best use her help," Vitto continued, notepad in hand. "And also how to make sure she isn't discovered, of course. Or at least how to ensure the operation is safe if she is— but as long as the equipment is hidden from witnesses it shouldn't be an issue."

"What was that pill you gave her?" asked Vergil.

"A little something I cooked up with your blood," Vitto said. "Just in case she's poisoned."

"Poisoned," Vergil repeated, drily.

" _Poisoned_ ," Vitto confirmed, nodding slowly. "Only older, more trustworthy nuns are brought into the tower. Imagine, then— you slip something in the night meal, nothing too strong, really, just enough to get everyone under the weather— come morning there are duties to see to, but certainly, the older and frailer Sisters should perhaps remain abed, and maybe be fed some especially made, extra heartening fare, no?"

"So you think..." Vergil trailed off. 

"It's smooth sailing from there," Vitto continued, expertly reorganizing the scattered medicine on the soup-marked table. "Just keep poisoning your target while nursing the others properly. How sad that the one inconvenient old woman didn't make it, but hey, if _everyone_ takes ill but just _one_ dies, is that not cause for celebration?"

It made a sick sort of sense. 

"We should have asked her what Sister Brava died of," Vergil muttered.

"Wanna take a bet?" Vitto asked, smugly.

###

The thought of not dismantling the equipment before 5am was... strange. A part of Vergil couldn't help insisting that the Mother wasn't stupid enough to uphold her demands, that she would lift her restrictions after making her point for one evening, that she would come herself to ensure Isobella would not take a sudden turn; the other part recalled the glint in her eye, and the bone-deep certainty that Mother Clemency was counting on Sister Succor's better nature to give in, to humiliate herself in defeat for a prisoner's sake.

When that failed to happen— that's when they should brace for changes. He wanted to lay some sort of plan, to talk out the possibilities and extrapolate her reactions, but unfortunately Vitto was asleep. 

So Vergil was antsy.

He wanted to lie down too, to leave the cell, to go back to his rental and stop being on guard. Instead, he returned to the scattered rolls of Sparda's correspondence, killing time by browsing through long dead conversations. 

It was a fruitful endeavor, for all his more pressing questions were no longer in need of answering.

His father had been surprisingly straightforward about life in the Underworld, at least to those friends whose correspondence he saw fit to secure. He spoke candidly of demonic life and customs— the latter mostly limited to those powerful enough to afford wasting consideration on anything other than survival— and even of his time under Mundus, and what drove him to apostasy. 

It hadn't been any one thing. 

It had been so, so many things.

Mundus stole offspring. He took them when they were freshly untethered, to avoid the strain of supporting their development. He renamed them and reshaped them until they no longer recalled their true parentage, in looks or in memory. He did it solely for the pleasure of punishing his enemies by proxy. 

Mundus had produced one single offspring of his own. A powerful demon in his own right, but a stunted shadow of what he could have been. Mundus had not given enough of himself to his child; he had built a core solely for the overflow of magic it would induce in him, then neglected its development and applied said magic to his own petty pursuits. Berial was little more than an overgrown minion, a heartbreaking failure on every account, and oblivious to his own tragedy.

 _Sparda_ was not, in fact, Sparda's true name. A demon's true name held a measure of control over its owner, and was not to be lightly revealed. 

Mundus had known his name, once. Mundus had _named_ him. Mundus had created him. Mundus had _spawned_ him. Mundus had had need of a sturdier, cleverer lieutenant, and built himself a custom thrall. This thrall had exponentially transcended his programmed limitations.

One day, Mundus had called out his thrall's Name, and said thrall no longer knew it as his own. For a demon's name, too, could evolve. This demon kept his wisdom, pretending at servitude while honing himself, learning himself. Marveling at his quote-unquote master's sheer douchebaggery. First scheming his own freedom, and then scheming _more_.

In fact, Father had done much as Vergil himself was doing— lying low, investigating, probing at options, learning new things and meeting new people. Truly, these letters had been a great find— even the rambling nerdery over looms had turned up references to demonic engineers and smithies, in the end. Weapons to investigate, names to look out for. A wealth of knowledge to arm his children with.

Nothing in those letters explained why he'd subject himself to the agony of leaving. 

Vergil laid down the last letter, filled with a strange melancholy. He could wake Vitto up, right? Tag him in for the lookout? He wanted to lie down and close his eyes and— after nigh a year of sleepless vigils, surely he had plenty lazy evenings to cash in on, no? 

But it was almost morning, anyway. Vitto woke on his own, at the usual time, and then sat in subdued silence; soon after, the usual nuns shuffled past, silent and tense, without disturbing Isobella's door. 

For all the extra time they now had, it felt pointless to stay.

Vitto refilled her saline drip and left it hooked to her arm, took fiddly notes, draped his coat over her linens. Had Vergil swear to come by in the afternoon to ferry further odds and ends. For a few more minutes, they stood dumbly mid-cell, fighting off the wrongness of a disturbed routine. 

Departure was weird.

The horizon was pale as Vergil dropped Vitto's stumbling, wheezing ass back into his room, strategically aimed for his disaster of a bed. The lights were still out; infrastructure was already poorly maintained in Fortuna, and on a Sunday, it was unlikely they'd be restored before nightfall.

Vergil helped himself to some stale bread and sliced his way out of the kitchen, striding into the trash-strewn alley two houses down from Miss Pascallini. For the last year he'd methodically pierced any vermin to wander within, until neither hobos nor druggies dared linger; his privacy should be ensured. 

So he dropped his cool with a mighty heave.

"My son," he mumbled stupidly to the fetid air, and it cleared as if by magic. 

His lungs bloomed with achingly tender delight, too intense to contain, to control. He swayed and almost hit the slimy wall with his brand-new dress uniform; he fumbled for his hood and brought it down over his head and eyes and nose and kept tugging it down for no reason other than an excess energy, a sudden need for pressure.

"My son," he mumbled again, giddy with the joy of it, the sheer _indulgence_. "My _son_ ," he repeated, as laugher stuttered out of his chest. "My son, my son, my _boy_ , my baby, my baby boy, my—"

He stumbled drunkenly in place, his breath hitching wetly, his laughter turning to tears, his mouth babbling the claim he had swallowed for a year, words tumbling past his tongue, _mine, mine, my son, my boy, my baby_ , and he yanked his hood down and turned and turned on his feet and he wanted something to hug tight against his chest but _he couldn't hug his son yet_ — 

He turned one more time and spotted a human standing right behind him. 

"Uh," said the human, hesitantly reaching out, and Vergil became painfully aware of the snot running down his nostrils.

He bounced up the walls and flickered to a nearby roof.

 _Mine, mine, mine_ , the chanting resumed in his lips, even as he scrambled for a measure of the steadiness he'd kept through the evening. His mind had been so clear, everything had been so clear, _mine, my boy my son my_ , and there had been no more _pain_ and he had been so _eager_ to say it out loud, finally— he knew he wouldn't stop if he started, he had so much time to make up for— and it just built up and up and now he was ugly crying on a roof despite feeling the opposite of sadness. 

The sky was orange by the time he dared wander into Miss Pascallini's kitchen. Nero was his, his son, his beautiful precious child, and he had a splitting headache and a cramp on his cheeks and his chest was suffused with so, so much love.

He flopped onto a chair, his body simultaneously too heavy and too light, vague and swaying. His wallet burned in his chest like a coal in his pocket, and tugging it out was like grasping a live wire. Somehow his hands did not shake as he zipped it open, even though it felt as if they should have.

Nero pouted up at him, squinting. His son. _His_. He let the word wash over him and soak him. _His_. Deep in his chest, past all mundane physicality, lay the chamber in his soul where both space and time had bent to his overpowering wish, carving a direct connection to the son he could not yet wrap in his arms; and within it a part of him held his son, it never for a single second stopped holding his son. 

Nero slept within, so lightly already, liable to stir at any moment. He lay in Vergil's palms, a star a flower a dewdrop a sun, and Vergil crooned, _stay asleep, my boy, my baby, I waited so long, I wanted this so much oh my god, mine, mine, I'm dying I love you so much holy shit, but oh, never mind, keep napping, shh_.

He dropped his head to the table, one hand clutching his hair, the other cradling his wallet, and checked out of reality completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my dear readers... it happened. It was inevitable, really, albeit regrettable. 
> 
> I ran out of buffer chapters. 
> 
> As I type this, the next chapter stands at— let me check— 773 words long, and although I could _probably_ finish it in a week, I can't guarantee that life, depression, work, my webcomic, or the new ffxiv patch drop won't get in the way of making it. So! Instead of scrambling and stressing over what is supposed to be a source of personal fun, I'm taking a break for the rest of the month. It's the holidays! And also my birthday! It's the worst! I should get pretty far ahead on the fic as I hide from all my terrible, terrible childhood memories of getting one single crummy gift and then being forgotten in favor of New Years' champagne. 
> 
> Anyway, to keep me honest, I'm going to settle on **January 9, 2021** as the date for this fic's return. In the meantime, if you're interested in my original project, I have a webcomic called [The Path to Timbala](http://www.pathtotimbala.com) (which will also go on break but way later in the month and for a shorter period). I just finished a side-story and we're getting into some real cool stunts for the next chapter! 
> 
> This is it for this fic in this year, though. Not a bad place to put things on pause, I guess. Vergil gets to stand suspended in dad serotonin for an entire month there. See you next year!


	37. Orientation

The lights had flickered on and off through the Sunday, never truly stabilizing until far past midnight— just in time to blast Vergil's eyes as he collected the copied Oracularium keys. 

Vitto cared little for his half-blinded squinting, eager as he was to put the keys to use. Off he went, doctoring through the tower with Sister Succor— apparently a trained assistant nurse— in tow; left to his own devices, Vergil gratefully buried his head in Isobella's cot and swam in love until she suddenly burst into tears.

Oh, she was having a bad night, Vergil thought vapidly as he held her hand to his chest. "Our son is here," he said, thick-tongued— but she just howled harder, and he cuddled her awkwardly, bent over her bed with knees on the floor. 

He'd just about succeeded in calming her down when the medical duo returned, and the swishing of Sister Succor's robes startled Isobella all the way past tears and into wrathful agitation.

"Kill her," she begged Vergil, her papery nails digging into his coat. " _Kill them all!!_ "

"Oh, but," Vergil stammered, caught off-guard. "She brought... soup."

And so she had— a small bowl, this time, along with a pinch of salt in a small paper envelope for Vitto's consumption. 

This revelation seemed to give Isobella pause. 

"It's chicken," the Sister added, helpfully.

"...okay," Isobella said wetly, before falling back unconscious.

Vitto pulled Succor into some more medical talk, which Vergil happily ignored. He had an orientation to go to first thing in the morning, and he'd actually have to pay attention to it if he wished to catch the Commander's eye. His new duties would involve managing groups, in battle and out of it, one of the very few skills he could not claim an inborn grasp of. 

He needed to focus, so, when Sister Succor shuffled off back to wherever, he begged off for the night as well.

"Sure," said Vitto, calmly. "Just come pick me up in the morning, I've got lab at eight."

Oh, right, that was an option now— Isobella was well enough that Vitto could nap safely, and they no longer needed hurry and put equipment away at a notice.

Vergil sliced a path straight into his bed and flopped across it face-down. _Star flower son son son his son his reason his life his baby warm, gentle sun in his soul beauty bright sweet joy befall thee—_

When he next opened his eyes, he was newly sharpened.

###

It had been days since his unseemly display of weakness, but Miss Pascallini was still being uncharacteristically mild towards him.

That morning, she had prepared a sandwich out of one long baguette, then cut it into quarters and swaddled each quarter in pastel-colored napkins. The swaddled sandwiches were then arranged into a basket along with several embroidered hand towels, such that they looked like they were tucked into a fluffy bed. 

"Good morning, ma'am," said Vergil, sitting before his napping sandwiches with great trepidation.

"Good morning, hun," she said, sweetly, laying a hefty jug on the table and then setting a hand on his shoulder, apropos of absolutely nothing. "Eat up now, it's your first day as a banneret!"

He was unsure what relation there was between food and his new rank, but the whims of Miss Pascallini were to be humored, not fathomed. So he tucked into the tucked-in sandwiches while she strained a glass of orange juice for him, and in his very first bite he tasted goat cheese, prosciutto, fried tomatoes, oregano, caramelized onions, lettuce and generous amounts of olive oil. 

What _had_ brought this on?

After being thoroughly dusted by a hand towel and subjected to microscopic adjustments in his uniform, Vergil finally made his way to the old headquarters office, at a respectable and elegant building that was nonetheless being gradually decommissioned due to the proliferation of assorted sources of temptation in its surroundings.

Three of the eight pubs were already open, entertaining several pathetic-looking knights. This _almost_ justified a relocation. It certainly did not justify the abomination being raised beyond Lamina Peak, nor the _other_ abomination being raised within it. 

He wondered whether he should investigate the pubs, but it seemed pointless. The Order could have fabricated far less embarrassing excuses, and some of the taverns had the aged look of long-established businesses. No, they must have been there for as long as there were pathetic knights with senses to dull; the Order needed but a pretense at enforcing piety.

Pious or not, Sergeant Filippo remained sober as ever, sprawled behind his desk in a manner unbefitting of a man with even the little authority he had. He smirked at Vergil, as the latter closed the door at his back and found himself the first to have arrived.

"Eager to be rid of me, huh?" Filippo asked, smugly. "Eager to move on to your next officer? Too bad, lad, I'll be making your life hard wherever you go!" 

"I wouldn't have had it any other way," Vergil said, and meant it wholeheartedly. 

He'd finally looked into the ranks and paths of advancement within the Order. It turned out there were two branches— the traditional knightly path, and a more structured, modern path. The former held considerable seniority and influence, while the latter had been implemented within the century and was mostly relegated to administrative duties. 

Funnily enough, lowborn knights were barely to be seen in the administrative personnel documentation he'd leafed through; it was clearly an exclusive club, the mausoleum where Second Sons' careers went to die. Instead, the lowborn were kept in the field as rank and file, only rarely receiving Vergil's own new rank of banneret. His rise was comparatively meteoric.

Meanwhile the gruff, rough-cut, farm-born, adopted orphan Filippo had been set loose in the entry-level administrative rank of Sergeant, his file stamped with a strange and ominous-looking symbol. From what Vergil could tell, he had been put in charge of fresh recruits— usually lowborn or troublesome or talentless or all of the above— and the paperwork thereof... as _punishment_.

In other words, he'd been given complete, gift-wrapped control over the recruits most likely to have things to prove and a need for guidance. Truly— were he the Supreme Commander, Vergil wouldn't move him from such a key position either. 

It also meant that he'd be the one assigning Vergil his field teams, which Vergil would not have had _any other way_.

The other bannerets gradually arrived, each of them getting teased in turn, and Filippo made them wait on their feet until the bells rang.

"Eight o'clock," he said, rising from his desk with mischief in his eyes. "Time to get you lot _oriented_." 

Vergil experienced a brief moment of panic before remembering that yes, he had already fetched Vitto from the tower, he'd just been half-focused on Nero at the time— and then the door opened at their back.

Supreme Commander Tridentino walked in, followed by some unknown knight.

 _Convenient_ , Vergil thought as the others gaped. He hadn't expected a head-start on those promotions so soon. 

"A good morning to you," said the Commander, pleasantly. "There has been a spike in the number of parasitic demons infesting the Forest, and we have triangulated the likely position of their spawning grounds. Now, Sergeant Filippo and Captain Andrea have one hour to see how you'll extract such and more information from these field reports, and at nine-hundred we will depart to clear their nest— I as your acting banneret, and you as the knights under my command."

###

Vergil's group of newly minted bannerets consisted of Ettore, Jacopo, Gianni, and Bryan With a Y, who seemed self-conscious about his name. As per the Order's tradition no surnames were offered, ostensibly to maintain equality within the service; in practice most high-class knights knew each other socially, and came in a predetermined clique complete with pecking order.

Curiously, his supposed peers merely regarded each other with aloof neutrality. Troublesome knights, then— him included. 

The "orientation" itself was simple. Filippo spread a map of the Mitis Forest on his desk, while the Captain handed out several stapled sheets containing incident reports and victim accounts— along with a small bag of plastic map markers, one color for each of them.

Some of the reports in Vergil's sheaf were rather inept or grossly misspelled, making for a frustrating read; still, he was the first to finish his set, and stepped up to the map to set his pieces down before any of the others.

Jacopo finished next, but kept referring back to his papers as he moved his markers back and forth, uncertain; Bryan was visibly struggling with his read, and eventually set it aside to glare at the map itself without making any additions. The others were generally more efficient, if not as fast, and soon the map was populated.

Next, the Captain had them pick out the nest, and Vergil and Bryan jabbed their fingers on the map, simultaneously, on two different locations. Soon they were arguing their choices while the others looked on in bewilderment; Vergil on the basis of demonic behavior and preferences— any demon who could spawn such numbers could also consider terrain, concealment and defensibility—, Bryan through sheer force of statistics.

To Vergil's annoyance, Bryan's approach would have been his own second pick. 

"You're both correct," said the Commander, rising from his corner seat. The hour must have been up. "Vergil's experience serves him well— we believe these demons to be spawning not from a gap in the Seal, but from a Devil. But as Bryan pointed out, they have been striking this specific settlement, instead of this closer one, due to terrain accessibility. But there is one detail no one at this table has thought to take into account." 

He looked very seriously at each of them in turn.

"These reports are not dated."

 _Fuck_. Vergil's fist curled around his papers despite himself. He'd assumed—

"You just assumed the reports were recent, didn't you?" asked the Commander, with little judgment. "That's fair. Who debriefs with outdated reports? But more than outdated, these reports have been _misfiled_."

The commander slowly paced around the table as he talked.

"They were written by knights, inexperienced or distracted, and submitted to their bannerets or captains. These, in turn, failed to notice or correct the errors before forwarding them to the sergeants on duty. Those sergeants then either filed them by date of submission— rather than date of _incident_ — or set them aside on a misfile tray to languish unprocessed."

He approached the table then, gathering more little markers from Filippo's stash and setting them down as he spoke. 

"Once they were found and added to our ongoing investigation, a great many gaps in our knowledge were finally filled, painting a fuller picture," he said, and stepped back.

The markers traced a line across the map, their colors gradually shifting across a line that passed through both his and Bryan's locations. 

"It's been moving," Vergil said quickly, almost defensively, to his own embarrassment.

"Yes," said the Commander— and Bryan sat his unopened bag of plastic marks on the table and tried to storm out, only for Filippo to grab him by the hair and drag him back, unceremoniously. 

His face was red and his eyes were shiny. His lips were pressed tightly together.

"I am aware," said the Commander, patting Bryan's hand sympathetically, "that paperwork is not a strong point for some of you. And to give credit where it's due, none of you have ever filed an undated or even _truly_ unreadable report, mistakes aside," he continued, still subtly directed at Bryan. "I merely wished to impress upon you one of your future duties, as leaders: you are responsible for your knights' reports as well as yours. I do not demand perfect literary acumen," he added, laughing softly, "but simply ensuring it's dated and marked for proper archiving can make all the difference."

The bell rang the ninth hour.

"Disorganization has allowed this demon to amass too many resources already," the Commander concluded. "Today, we move to send it back where it belongs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return!! With chapters!! I'm not nearly as far ahead as I'd hoped to be, though, so I'm going to be updating once every 2 weeks instead of every Saturday until I'm confident on my buffer again. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also Fs in chat for Bryan With a Y, who has undiagnosed dyslexia. Poor dude.


	38. Delphyne

They rode _horses_ to the Mitis Forest.

Horse-riding was no mystery to Vergil, even after pushing down the aching childhood memories of weekends at a pony farm. He and his fellows acquitted themselves well on that matter, hooded and resplendently white on their mounts.

But there really was something strange and comical about clopping down the Blade along with cars and the occasional truck; a mix of tradition and modernity that felt far less spontaneous than the sight of a farmer's wagon and its humble mule, even as the latter held down an entire lane.

Anyone in Fortuna who could afford a car could also afford to be late, so the Commander's entourage held their peace even under the onslaught of sudden furious honking and requests for action.

Horses made far more sense once in the Forest proper, as they rode down ancient roads and dusty trails. A small contingency of knights was already milling about, setting up what appeared to be a temporary command... at the ruined church, to Vergil's displeasure.

That place was his. That place was _theirs_. 

He sighed. _Priorities_ , he told himself firmly. What was one more indignity to swallow back? 

At least the camp, or whatever it was, wasn't set _inside_ Vergil's erstwhile hideout, but rather in its overgrown courtyard. The Commander dismounted, offering his reins to a pimply squire, and led them to a fold-out table and another map for a quick strategy meeting with assorted captains.

Not that they were expected to contribute to it. All decisions had already been made, teams assigned and deployed; the Commander outlined the ongoing plans— knights would cut off the fleeing spawns, nearby settlements would be patrolled, and the temporary camp would keep track of the prey in real time.

The Commander would be leading them to the very beast.

"With all due respect, sir," said one of the captains, "it is beneath your station to either join this hunt or to lead these recruits."

"My station sounds dreadfully boring," the Commander retorted, with a small, crooked smile. "As for these _bannerets_ ," he added emphatically, "I have only the greatest confidence in their skills."

" _Bannerets?_ " another captain chortled. "Are you sure? You might wish to reevaluate their files, sir, because _that one_ —" he pointed to Bryan With a Y, "went through five tutors and still can't _read_."

Bryan's face reddened in something that looked too unhealthy to be a blush. Nobility, both of them, Vergil guessed; the captain was gray-haired and spoke of the young man with contemptuous familiarity, despite the age difference, so the latter's difficulties must be a source of social embarrassment in their circles. 

"He _can_ date his reports, however," said the Commander, with only a hint of a threat in his voice. "And incidentally, we found yours, all seven of them. Plus _forty_ others from varying sources."

Just as he had in the office, the Commander reached for the map and began setting down markers. "Our quarry has been much more active than we previously assumed," he spoke, as the gray-haired captain pursed his lips in humiliation, "and its spawning rate much higher. This hunt is now," he glanced up with a grin, "officially _level_ with my station."

"And what about them?" asked another captain, nodding towards Vergil and the others. 

"They're some of the most skilled knights to join our ranks in recent years," said the Commander, with full conviction. 

Well, that was true enough of Vergil at least. 

"But their excellence made them difficult to place in squadrons," the Commander continued, "and they operated solo most of the time. So I intend to evaluate them on the field, give them a taste of teamwork, and hopefully impress upon them the role they will be playing in the future."

"Good luck with _that_ one," said the gray-haired captain, snickering and looking straight at Bryan.

Bryan's eyes flashed.

" _Must_ you insult me?" he asked, indignant. "Right here, on the field, before a large-scale mission?"

"That foreign name cursed your brain," the captain spat back, "if you think _this_ is large-scale."

"He's right, though," said the other captain, laying a quelling hand at the former's elbow. "You're out of line. Lay off."

The gray-haired captain stared at his colleague with the startled betrayal of a man ambushed by his own rug. 

"This is no raid," said the Commander, his voice cooling by degrees, "but it's the largest operation we've had in years. Long enough for you to forget protocol, it seems."

"Apologies, sir—"

"I'm not the one you insulted." 

The Commander stepped aside to give the captain a clear view of the fuming Bryan— who gave the man no chance to speak.

"We're wasting time," he said hoarsely. "No matter what he says, he'll never mean it. Sir," he turned to face the Commander with a salute. "Lead us. The Forest needs cleansing."

The Commander nodded, and just like that, the dismayed captain was metaphorically dismissed. 

"We've narrowed its location down to _this_ area," he said, pointing at the map as the sheepish captains gave them space. "The terrain is rocky and steep, and the vegetation is dense. There are no trails. We'll have to search on foot. Stealth is paramount." 

He tapped the map. "We'll spread out and search for the 'mother' devil, and whoever finds it first will send out a flare." He held out a palm, and one of the captains laid an awkward, flimsy-looking gun upon it; the Commander silently showed it off to the group. "Do _not_ engage it alone, under any circumstances. And if you do not find it, but are overwhelmed by its spawn or otherwise in danger, _shoot_. Accomplished knights are priceless resources that we _cannot_ afford to lose."

He frowned at them, and, perhaps sensing Vergil's general indifference, pushed the flare into his hand and doubled down.

"If I find it first, **_I_** — the Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights of the Order of the Savior— will shoot this flare, because I have a family and I wish to be home for dinner." He glared at each of them. "Value your lives. _Shoot_ the _flare_. All others are to convene where the flare was shot, _immediately_. Those are your orders. Now— Bryan, you search east..."

And so, each knight armed with a silly flare gun, they trekked into the thickening forest, then scattered to their hunting grounds. The prey was not in Vergil's assigned area, he could tell even before arriving; he'd been tracking its location since their departure. 

Luckily for him, he had no need of a flare gun.

He found a suitable clearing in his domain, sent out a short burst of magic, then settled in wait.

###

Vergil's prey came preceded by a vanguard of jerky, skittery vermin, swarming his surroundings in a nice, even radius— perfect for a quick dispatching. 

Yamato sang, and then there was silence.

Trees tumbled; rocks turned to dust; his enemy slithered into the widened clearing, half-woman half-snake, her tongue flickering in impotent anger.

"Sparda's _get_ ," she snarled, her clawed fingers twitching as she slithered in circles around him. "Befoul and dilute it however much, the ssssss _tench_ of that blood is unmistakable!"

"Good," Vergil said, widening his stance. "Introductions can be spared."

"Do _you_ know who _I_ am?" she asked arrogantly, tossing back her stringy, scaly hair with a jerk of her head.

"My prey," Vergil answered, dryly. "The stain upon my blade. All else is irrelevant."

" _I am Delphyna!_ " she screeched— and a spray of poison rained out of her furious, open grimace. 

It was easily diverted by some displaced air. Vergil resheathed Yamato, and immediately leapt to the attack.

Delphyna was the best sport he'd had in years: prehensile hair, lengthening claws, poison spit, a gigantic whipping tail. He danced on its length, sidestepped grasping cords, stood on the very tip of her reaching nail; he slapped aside her acid dribble with Yamato's scabbard. 

" _Curse you!_ " she screamed, as he sliced her little by little. "Filthy, treacherous blood, spawn of Sparda! I will grind your bones to _dust!_ "

"You will _try_ ," Vergil corrected her gently— then flared out his wings, solely to impress his superiority upon her. 

His full devil form would have been excessive, at that point; sport she may have been, but only barely a challenge. As a capstone he glided around her with taunt and mockery, and baited her into tying herself into a scaly ball of knots.

"You were a welcome diversion," he told her, finally. "But my playtime is limited. Go back to—"

He interrupted himself. 

As he stood upon the tangle of her tail, Yamato raised to stab, she craned her neck in his direction— her eyes wide and unfocused, her mouth slack, her nostrils flared...

Vergil waited. 

"...you _spawned,_ " she hissed, awe and incredulity in her voice. "No— _no!!_ Sparda's line must not— _where is it??_ "

She struggled in her tangle, stretching her neck and flickering her tongue at the clearing's surroundings. Her breath was shallow and her eyes blown wide; she managed to drag herself in a semi-circle, sniffing and panting at the trees and the ground and, occasionally, back at him.

"It can't be far—", she gasped, digging into the soil with broken claws, brushing the mess aside, crawling to a different spot. "It is an infant— an _infant!!_ That smell, it _must_ be, it can't be far, I need, I need, I need to..."

Vergil stood on her tied tail, carefully studying her frenzy. It might have been comical, her neurotic searching, but he felt no humor.

"So the scent of my son is on me?" he asked, softly. Standing primly, wings wide, Yamato in hand. 

"You stink of young— you sss _tink!!_ " she screeched. "Yet it is not upon you. How can it be unattached when it smells so young? _Where have you stashed your get??_ "

Her fingers scrabbled at the earth. Her voice grew shrill with panic. Vergil wondered, vaguely, whether she hoped to kill Nero before she grew too hopelessly enamored. 

It was too late for her, of course. Not merely because her anguish and concern grew as she searched, nor because her pupils had blown wide into helpless pools.

He plunged his sword into her chest with intent.

"Change of plans," he said, as she began to flake. " ** _You cannot return._** "

She gasped in dismay, her broken claws scrabbling uselessly against his arms.

"Such news is not to be spread in the Underworld," he explained, heedless of her wheezing. "You are unworthy, all of you, _every single one of you_. Oh, but do not struggle so!" he chided her with a small laugh. "I can tell that his light has touched your soul. Even a wretch like you may find redemption!"

He plunged his hand in her chest, not bothering to wait before grasping her essence. 

" ** _Submit,_** " he commanded, " ** _and become a weapon in his defense._** "

She released with a shuddering breath, her soul taking form in his hand, long and coiled and barbed.

He wrapped the whip around her disintegrating body, tossed it up, and broke it apart under several lengths of dancing coils. Scales shattered under his strikes, along with rock and earth and bark; her torn corpse fell back with many thuds, raising a cloud of dust and ash, and Vergil retrieved the lengths of his new weapon with satisfaction.

" ** _From now on, you exist only to protect him_** ," Vergil told her; and then he raised her into a beam of sunlight, wafting in from the newly opened gaps amid the trees. " ** _How fortunate you are to serve such noble purpose._** "

A cloud of dust rose around him as her body finished collapsing into itself. He ignored it. The whip should serve as proof of kill; he might have to damage the flare gun as an excuse for not calling reinforcements, though, and the Commander might consider this a failing at the mission's stated purpose of experiencing teamwork. 

He could live with that; nullifying the threat came first.

With a flick of his arm and a snap of his wings, he pushed the cloud of ash and dust aside to reveal the treeline— along with Supreme Commander Tridentino, standing at its edge.

Supreme Commander Tridentino gaped, covered in ash and dust and leaves.

Vergil gaped back.

His wings were out. Horns, half-formed— unintentionally, a careless slip of control. Were his eyes glowing? They were probably glowing. The Commander's own were obviously taking in the presence of all those extraneous appendages. Had he heard their conversation? _Could_ he hear demons, like Isobella could? Had Vergil's own words given him away? Would it be better or worse for that to be the case?

Vergil had just about resolved to kill him when the Commander went down on one knee, slowly, his eyes wide and awed. 

That worked too.

"I would..." he began, with as much dignity as he could gather on short notice, "...appreciate your discretion on this matter—"

There was a strange whizzing boom, and the sun was momentarily outshone by a reddish glare.

The Commander's head snapped up and, with a final poleaxed glance back at Vergil, he shot off in its direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Vergil and Commander Tridentino staring at each other over Delphyna's disintegrating corpse)
> 
> _And he looked at me  
>  And I looked at him  
> And he looked at me  
> And I looked at him  
> And he looked at me  
> And I looked at him  
>  **And he looked at me  
>  And I looked at him  
> And he looked at me  
> And I looked at**\---_


	39. Commander Tridentino, part one

Vergil detriggered, lamented his own stupidity for a few seconds, and followed in the Commander's trail. It was his only option, one way or the other— to make sure he did not reveal Vergil's identity, and to silence everyone in the area in case he did. A rampaging devil was a good enough excuse.

He did not relish the prospect, but having the Commander on his side this easily, this soon seemed too good to be true. 

The flare fluttered still, a pale orange ball nigh on swallowed by the blue sky. The dark pillar of its trail was far more visible as a reference point, its smoke heavy and slow to dissipate.

"It's Bryan," said the Commander, as Vergil caught up. "That's his area."

It was far more than Bryan. Demon ash and guts peppered the very edge of his territory, extending into the sloping trail of a nearby settlement. Knights gathered down the dust road, shields together in a phalanx; ahead of them, more knights fought off a swarm of Delphyne's spawn, maddened and without purpose.

"Stay back," the Commander told Vergil, who was about to question his sanity before catching on— he'd asked for discretion, and that meant _not_ outshining the Supreme Commander before a good chunk of his Order. 

Vergil slowed his pace, then engaged the back of the swarm with his standard-issue Caliburn. No powers, no decent weapons, no having fun— god, the effort he had to put into not looking effortless was more of a handicap than everything else put together.

The Commander was attacking the swarm from the flank, screaming out orders. He was a good fighter, Vergil decided. Reinforcements arrived in a ragged hurry, then were shouted into line; Jacopo showed up— he apparently specialized in small throwing knives—, then Gianni. They were decent. 

All too soon, it was over.

Bryan fell back on his ass in the middle of the battlefield, ankle-deep in ash and blood, and was immediately assailed by admirers. Vergil approached as the Commander was debriefed; apparently Bryan had been fighting the spawn since they first attacked, buying the patrol time to form a shield wall, and kept on fighting even after his flare gun burst in his palm instead of shooting. The flare they'd followed had been Ettore's, who'd been tracking a group of spawn when they suddenly went mad and joined the stampeding swarm. 

"The target, sir?" Ettore asked, possibly the only living being in the entire forest still focused on that particular matter. 

"Dealt with," said the Commander, smoothly. "As for details... perhaps Vergil could debrief us on the matter."

Vergil stared. The Commander turned to him, expectantly, and the others followed suit. Apparently, he was expected to set the tone for this lie.

He touched Yamato. "I believe," he began, slowly, "that the creature could sense my devil arm."

"I see," the Commander said, immediately, while assuming a thoughtful expression. "It would explain the debacle." He turned to the others. "The beast slithered by me in a fury, without taking notice of my presence. I followed its trail, hoping to find its destination before spending my shot, only to find it engaged with Vergil in battle."

The Commander was a fairly smooth liar, Vergil decided. Not a perfect one; the smell of unease permeated him, and there was obvious tension in his shoulders. It might have been excused by the battle, along with the sweat. It might also be due to Vergil's revealed pedigree. He resolved to keep an eye on the matter, nevertheless. 

"My own flare failed," the Commander continued, spinning his skein smoothly despite the shiver in his hands. "Vergil's, I believe, was disabled by the devil in question; it laid crushed by the wayside. Thankfully the demon was not as strong as we expected— but it did turn out to be much cleverer than the usual slavering beast."

"A little _too_ clever for its own good," Vergil added, half as a warning. "In the end, it spelled its own doom."

"Vergil trapped it into a knot of its own tail," the Commander added, with a note of pride. "Surprised as I was, I cannot deny he was deserving of this devil's prize."

Vergil blinked. Did he mean—?

He raised Delphyne, dubiously. The crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed at the weapon, muttered about their general rarity. Someone asked him to crack it, before being silenced by a glare from the Commander. 

More knights were arriving, along with a few of the braver inhabitants from the settlement; the latter brought water and first-aid supplies along, clearly used to the aftermath of battle. Someone fiddled with an ugly radio to contact the camp at Vergil's broken church. 

A strange, unfamiliar awkwardness arose in Vergil, a feeling of being underfoot. He turned to the Commander, along with the others, and found strange solace in the fact that they, too, were awaiting directions.

"Back to headquarters," said the Commander. "I suggest you draft your reports while events are fresh in your mind, but they can be delivered tomorrow. You've earned your rest— report back and then consider yourselves dismissed."

Weary nods all around, salutes, and finally the bannerets scattered. Vergil stashed Delphyne back in his coat and was about to trudge off in search of water when the Commander suddenly raised his voice.

"Vergil, one second."

Oh, good. The man did, in fact, recall that there was an unresolved matter.

"I'd like to hear some more details on how your encounter began," the Commander said, as Vergil turned to him. "Not right now— we're both filthy and miserable. Report to my office at thirteen hundred, and bring your devil arm for examination; if other demons are attracted to it, it may be cause for concern."

Vergil saluted, and the Commander gave him a tight little nod before wandering off. 

The audience was set. Now— to take a very thorough shower, and hope the Commander didn't require decapitating. 

###

The Supreme Commander's office had yet to be relocated to the new headquarters; smack-dab in the middle floor of the old building, it was both reasonably accessible and reasonably private. Two knights guarded its outer door— singular, of average size— and the corridor within was narrow and windowless and austere, less inviting than it was defensible.

The office itself was small and comfortable, with white walls and dark furnishings. Its desk faced the door directly, but the Commander was not seated at it— instead he leaned against its side, arms crossed, eyes distant. Thoughtful and nervous.

Vergil closed the door at his back and didn't bother to salute.

"Before we get into our topic," the Commander began, without further preamble, "there's something I'd like to show you."

He pushed off the table, towards a weapon display, and took out an ornate, feathered spear.

"This is Tupan," he said, and, with a flourish, stabbed the floor directly at his feet.

Electricity flowed under Vergil's boots and up the walls; the lamps flickered, and the old, ugly rug became newly singed. Somewhere outside the room there was a small bursting sound. 

The Commander fell back on his chair with a sudden exhale.

" _Savior guide and keep me_ ," he gasped, all but collapsing on his elbows, his head in his palm. "It— it should be safe to talk openly, here. Tupan is an old hat at finding and killing suspicious electronics— and we _are_ supposed to be talking about temperamental devil weapons, so—"

"You've put plenty of thought into this," Vergil commented, softly, as he invited himself to the seat across the desk.

"My mind has been churning for hours," he responded, then covered his face, then his mouth. Raised his wide eyes to Vergil. "I... I heard, and I saw, and I still cannot comprehend it. Are you truly...?"

"Could you hear Delphyne's words?" Vergil asked.

"A devil of that stature could be heard by the dullest human soul," the Commander said, and then cringed. "That is to say, yes— I couldn't _not_ hear her."

"Then there is little for me to confirm," Vergil showed his palms in a shrug. "I have the blood of Sparda, exactly as she said."

"And yet you have laid no claim," the Commander whispered. "You joined our Order, when we should have been the ones serving you..."

Vergil had laid the only claim that mattered a scant few days previous, but that really wasn't what he'd come to argue about.

"Have you told anyone else? Of my identity, or what you saw?" he asked instead.

"Absolutely not," the Commander said at once. "If you wished your identity known, you would not have spent a year taking Filippo's bullshit. Clearly you have your reasons, but— may I at least know them?"

Vergil smirked. "Please," he said, drawing out his answer. "Sergeant Filippo is a delight. Out of all I've met on this island, he is one of the few I respect. _Few_ , indeed," he added, slowly, tapping his fingers on the table, before slapping it decisively. "I have no love or trust for the Order."

"If we have let you down—"

"Shh."

The Commander shut up.

"You seem a good enough man, Commander," Vergil continued, "and other good men have spoken highly of you. I hear you frequent the orphanages— you must know of him, then..."

He closed his eyes and drew a bracing breath.

"...my son."

 ** _God_** , that felt so satisfying to say. His blood ran smoother just from the uttering of it. He pressed his lips against the temptation of repeating it like a mantra, and if they formed a smile, he was not about to fight it.

He opened his eyes to a brighter, cleaner, more colorful world— as it so often was after reaching for **_his son_** 's light. Even the Commander's olive complexion looked more striking. The man's eyes, too, became clearer, more transparent to him, his intentions and thoughts further in evidence. They were brown, and they were truly, _remarkably_ clueless.

"Yes," the Commander said, confused but attentive. "Little Nero, right?"

Vergil tried not to shiver too obviously. This wasn't Vitto. This man wouldn't understand why an acknowledgment of **_his_** **_child_** 's parentage covered him in goosebumps.

He steepled his hands, then laid his forehead onto his laced fingers, buying time to get his bearings. This was his opportunity to get **_his son_** the protection he deserved— he _had_ to impress upon the Commander the sensitivity of the matter.

"My son—"

— _is small and infinitely precious_ —

"M-my son, he—" 

— _is vast and all-encompassing_ — 

"He is, he is—"

— _ever warm and ever bright_ —

" ** _—he is everything_** ," Vergil pushed out, thick and half-demonic, then buried his head in his hands. "Fuck."

This was beyond mortifying— his claim complete, after a year of living and breathing his new reality, and he still couldn't keep his shit together before his treasure!

The Commander circled around his desk to kneel at Vergil's feet— not as a servile gesture, as Vergil had half-expected, but in order to peek into his burning face. The Commander's own was filled with gentle concern.

Vergil could not deal with both that and the warmth in his chest, so he hid his face again.

"I am still followed," he mumbled into his palms. Facts, facts, stick to the facts. "By demons. By Mundus. Everywhere. They can't. I can't let them. I can't—!"

"Deep breaths," the man said, steady and composed. "Slowly. Look at me, follow my lead."

Vergil shook his head, eyes firmly shut under his hands, but did attempt to regulate his breathing. Each inhale whirled within his lungs, each exhale puffed out into stars; divine love and visceral terror tangled within his ribcage, too great to contain, too dangerous to release.

(Nero slept so soft and warm, but what if he were startled awake—)

Vergil took one last deep breath, straightened on his chair, lowered his hands, and tied a very firm leash upon his cool.

"Apologies," he said, very steadily, "for the scene."

"Nonsense," said the Commander, firmly. "It's your son!"

Vergil almost dropped said leash right then and there. Yes, it was **_his_** , it was— the Commander took his hand before he could cover his face again, and tugged at it until Vergil wrestled enough attention to grant him.

"You are avoiding him to draw your pursuers away, correct?" asked the Commander.

"Yes, but—" Vergil mumbled, "it won't work much longer. His core— his magic— it'll manifest soon. I couldn't—" _bear to not love him wholeheartedly—_ "it cannot be stopped. And once that happens, he will be... noticeable."

"How so?" he asked. "What must be done?"

"I believe— I _hope_ —" Vergil corrected himself firmly— "that they will not recognize his blood from afar. But he will most certainly register as a threat. The trash is sure to approach, to probe and challenge— all it takes is for one with a smidgen of sentience to return to hell and his masters with the memory of what it found— and," he added, softly, "even before then..."

"...they would be a threat to all civilians in the area," the Commander completed his thought.

They would be a threat to _Nero_ , more importantly, but even Vergil couldn't so flippantly brush aside the other likely victims. Nero's orphanage was a humble but caring home. Vitto spoke of its caretakers with great respect. He owed them a debt of gratitude beyond any earthly possibility of payment. 

Also, demons in the neighborhood would **_upset his boy_** —

"If it were possible— _no_." Vergil rubbed at his eyes roughly. "I _demand_ this! As Sparda's blood and heir— no demon must be allowed to approach Nero, to single him out, I _must_ have this assurance— or I..." he sighed, then pressed his eyelids. "Or I cannot guarantee my own continuing sanity."

"No! Yes! Sure!" the Commander blurted out, dumbly, before getting back to his feet to pace around the small room. "I understand perfectly— if my children were..." 

He pushed his hair back, pulled at his goatee, crossed his arms, stood still. Turned to Vergil again.

"Where has the Order failed?" he asked, anxiously. "If you do not wish to be specific I will understand, but— any hint, any direction I can know to avoid, so I know which forces to marshal, who to, who to _uproot_!!" 

He resumed his pacing, agitation clear in his wide gesticulating. "It is unacceptable, an _affront_ , for a child of holy descent to not be afforded the protection he's due. There must be _something_ I can do—" 

"You can influence the patrols," interrupted Vergil. "Strengthen the guard around that quarter. Prevent the demons' approach and they will know no better than what they already do."

"The _patrols!"_ scoffed the Commander. "For a descendant of the Savior! No, a few squads of plain-clothed knights at the very _least_ —" 

Vergil pressed his eyes closed, heavy-hearted with sympathy, as the Commander gave voice to his own wants. Oh, for Nero to have proper bodyguards! An army of them! But he had to be practical. As a father, he _had_ to be practical.

"Commander, _please_ ," he insisted. "I asked for your discretion. Mundus is not the only one I am guarding my son from!"

"We can ensure discretion!" the Commander proclaimed, with painful conviction. "I need only take the matter directly to His Holiness. He's the wisest and most faithful in our Order. He will know how best to proceed!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tridentino: I'm sure Sanctus--   
> Vergil, quickly: _So, about Sanctus_


	40. Commander Tridentino, part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some extra care for the trigger warnings is advised. I mean, it's nothing that we haven't had so far, but it's stated fairly bluntly, so better safe than sorry?

Vergil watched, with vague disappointment, as the Commander earnestly sung Sanctus' praises. He quoted speeches and outlined projects, and— truly, the whole bizarre situation made so much more sense in retrospect.

Of _course_ Sanctus didn't approach his congregation and announce his decision to build a giant Sparda-shaped construct and conquer the world, or whatever it was he meant to do with it. He'd approached the matter in steps, starting from a so-called vision, planting anxiety and then allaying it in turns. He made perfectly reasonable suggestions in soft-spoken tones, and if they added up into an uglier, less reasonable picture, it could not possibly have been his intention, for surely he'd only meant the best. 

And oh, how he grieved on such occasions, how he toiled to make things right! True, perhaps the remedy never quite healed the disease, and perhaps it introduced further complications, but if one were to really, _really_ think about it, the status quo had long been in need of change, no? Growing pains were perfectly normal when creating something new and wonderful, no? 

Thus Sanctus caused problems and _spectacularly_ solved them. He cut programs and diverted funds— or rather _others_ did, in service of his immaculately clean vision— then hosted bombastic charity events and appealed loudly to the nobility's better natures. And he did it subtly and cannily enough that nothing ever seemed amiss.

Vergil had been fooled by Arkham, who had been completely transparent about his nature and ambitions; it felt hypocritical to judge anyone else for falling for a better mummer. And to the Commander's credit, his voice grew progressively more hesitant as he described Sanctus' so-called achievements.

Listed chronologically, the pattern was clear. And it spoke to the power of Sanctus' sheer charisma that, even when faced with such blatant evidence, the Commander stammered not in dismay, but in confusion— eyes staring into the distance as he searched within for the error _in his own recollection_.

"Commander," said Vergil, taking mercy upon the man— who snapped out of his frantic thinking with clear relief. "You truly are a good man. I am going to tell you a sad, sordid story, a story that is not mine to tell: a story about the Mother of My Son, and of her brother. A story you might _think_ you know, but which you emphatically do _not_." 

He stared at the Commander, flatly. The Commander stared back, and paled.

"Their mother poisoned her, blatantly and with intent," Vergil said, taking grim satisfaction in the Commander's violent recoil. "She did everything in her power to kill **_my son_** before he was born. One time, Vittorino caught that woman in the process of adding _rat poison_ to Isobella's food, and threatened to publicize the matter. He believes that to have been her first and only attempt. I do not."

Vergil watched, silently, as the Commander stumbled and groped for the table; he watched, without moving to soothe or help, as the man inched wide-eyed and stunned towards his seat, and kept on watching as the Commander did not so much sit as trip awkwardly onto his chair.

"Did you know," he resumed, as the Commander sagged on his seat, "that modern rat poison works by inducing internal bleeding? Even on this backwards island, arsenic is not so readily available. Then again, arsenic would not have been enough either, for one with the blood of Sparda. Now," he smiled ruefully, "internal bleeding on a pregnant woman often results in the mixing of blood between mother and fetus. And the blood of Sparda has properties that accelerate physical healing. You should be able to do the math yourself— but that is only _her_ tale. Now I tell you _his_." 

He looked the Commander dead in the eye.

"Vittorino is his mother's favorite child," he began. "She dotes upon him, takes pride in his every achievement, and worries for his health. Worries so much, in fact, that she elected not to furnish his apartment with shelves for his _hundreds of books_ , predicting that his asthma would soon force him back into her loving care. Often she would visit unannounced to fuss over him, and to dust his books and fumigate his apartment against noxious insects. Oh, did I just claim," Vergil smirked unpleasantly, "that he has _asthma_?" 

He leaned back on his chair, intently tracking the horror in the Commander's face.

"I've been feeding him blood for a year," he continued. "And ever since we got the bitch to stop saturating his apartment with _insect poison_ every other day, he hasn't coughed _once_. This was, oh— less than a week ago. And all this time I'd assumed my blood couldn't fix what was inherent in his body..." he checked his nails theatrically. "Of course, _how_ inherent it was to begin with has been put into question at this point. Would you not say?"

For a few tense minutes, the Commander did nothing but stare at a spot on the table, mouth half open, before raising his eyes somewhat pathetically.

"So you're saying..." he trailed off.

"I'm saying that Fortuna is Sanctus' _favorite_ island," said Vergil, lightly, casually. "He is _so_ proud of it. He worries _so much_ for it. One might even say he _dotes_ upon it. It looks to me as if he's been fumigating fairly regularly, too, and always knows to stand at the ready with an inhaler and a reminder that the old bedroom is always open. Like a..." Vergil drenched his voice in contempt, " _devoted mother_. But that is what Sanctus does for the good child, the golden child— what do you think Sanctus would do to a bad, _inconvenient_ child? One who would _threaten his authority_ by his very existence?" 

###

It took some time for the Commander to absorb the ramifications of Vergil's assertions. Vergil didn't push him. The man had a lot of new realities to adjust to, and Vergil was content to answer the occasional question, or advise on Sanctus.

No, the Savior Project was not remotely well-intentioned, did not honor Sparda's memory, and could not possibly be brought to fruition without the application of extremely hairy and undoubtedly dark rituals. It would likely require Sparda's blood in some capacity. It most definitely would _not_ run on faith. 

If Sparda wished to be praised worldwide, he would have conquered the human world. It wasn't like there was anyone left on the surface who could have stopped him.

If Sparda wished to be worshiped, he would have replaced Mundus instead of sealing him along with the Underworld.

Sparda had never cared for notoriety. Nor had he cared for temporal power. He'd lived anonymously, as a human, among humans.

He had _wanted_ to be human.

The last admission had Vergil swaying on his chair, for all that he'd been the one to speak it out loud. He'd known it all along, of course, but somehow the act of putting it into words was just...

He buried his head in his hands. Cognitive dissonance was a bitch.

After a small, considering pause, the Commander stood, opened a small cabinet, and returned to his seat with a bottle and two very small glasses in hand. 

"I am a fool," he rasped, heavily, as he poured amber liquor to the brim of his glass.

"Not as fool as I am," Vergil admitted, ruefully. "I had Sanctus under the edge of my blade years ago, and thought his death beneath my dignity as a warrior. And then..."

He watched the amber line rise on the dainty glass before him— and as soon as the Commander tipped the bottle back, he took it in his fingertips and downed its contents in a single gulp. 

" _Then_ ," he set the glass back down with a loud knock, "I left Isobella behind for her _safety_."

"...I suppose the continent is much more sympathetic to unwed mothers," the Commander said, apologetically, but Vergil shuddered— a grasping, uncontrollable quake scratching up his arms and clawing the back of his head; the hairs on his neck stood on end as he breathed the ghost of alcohol out through his nostrils.

" ** _I didn't know_** ," his mouth spoke unbidden, tight and guttural and dark. 

Again, he buried his face in his hands; the gesture induced a sudden bout of vertigo, however, so he dragged his palms down his face, rubbing his eyes and sighing through his fingers as he went. 

"...I don't know what I would have done, had I known," he confessed at last, lending voice to the haunting thought. "I don't know how long it would take for his growing core to call out to me. If he would touch my soul before or after being born. The possibility of a child did not occur to me even in jest, and I was so taken by my own fool's quest..." 

"I see," said the Commander, thoughtfully. "So— Nero's conception in the occasion was as the hand of fate, then?"

Vergil burst into ungainly laughter. He couldn't help it, his shoulders shaking in rueful mirth until he finally got a hold of himself. He sat his elbows on the desk before him, rubbed his face forcefully— the alcohol had gone to his head _fast_.

"Commander, commander," mumbled Vergil into his hands. "Oh, good commander. I came to this island to learn of my ancestry, hoping that books would give me the guidance I lost as a child. Aah..." he pushed into his eyelids, willing the threat of tears away. "I was a prideful teenager, arrogant in my strength and my blood. I fully intended to come, take what I willed, and leave in the surety of my rightful ownership of all that had once been _his_."

He leaned his forehead into his awkward hands, glanced down at the polished table. A diffuse pair of bright glowing orbs peered back at him. _Yeah, pretty much,_ he thought uselessly at his reflection.

"Reality is often less... dignified, I've come to learn," he continued, glancing back at the Commander's concerned face. "And yes, I'm drunk. I'll be sober in ten minutes, so bear with me." He waved a hand, half-trying to brush his embarrassment away. "Librarians tend to be a very welcoming sort in the mainland, did you know? Eager to pass on their curated wisdom. Yours are _not_. I had no wish to make myself memorable, and didn't press the issue. Instead I did a lot of skulking," he said with a chuckle. "Sneaking after hours, digging for magic and secrets in all these nooks and crannies. I found many. But research takes time. Did you know? It takes _time_."

He wagged a finger vaguely at the puzzled Commander, then dropped his hand sheepishly, glanced back away. 

"It took _weeks_ ," he said at last. "We were... for most of it." He huffed out a breath that was half-laughter, half-sigh, and looked straight into the Commander's face. "We went at it like desperate rabbits. For _weeks_. I walked in thinking of it as a daytime pastime, and walked out feeling like a particularly tragic hero." 

The Commander's eyebrows were very far up on his forehead.

" _Weeks_ ," the man repeated, bewildered. "And... no one knew of the tryst? Her family couldn't possibly have given her so wide a leash— they are _Martinellis!_ "

Vergil huffed in disdain. "The Martinellis are insane," he said. "I include Bella and Vitto under this umbrella, but the parents are worse. The _mother_ is worse. God," he sighed, "she used to spout such ludicrous little jokes about her home... and now they haunt my nightmares, along with all the questions I was too self-absorbed to even think of making." 

He took a harsh bracing breath. "It was May when I left," he spoke, spurred on mostly by the drink. "And Nero... January eighteenth." He blinked slowly at the painfully sympathetic realization blooming in the Commander's face. "I didn't know," he repeated, "and I don't think she did either. If she did, I don't think she _cared._ "

The Commander frowned down at his hands, puzzled. 

"I admit that schooling is not considered necessary for women of our land, past the very basics," he said. "But... matters of reproduction are taken _very seriously_ for ladies. Even in modern times, they're expected to wed among peers and bear children. The tracking of menses is observed almost as religiously as the Tenets— _I_ had to teach my little sisters when mother took a turn! Miss Martinelli _must_ have known the signs! Why would she hide them? Do you think—" his eyes widened in alarm, "—she may have had some agenda of her own?"

"No," said Vergil, hollowly. "She really didn't."

His vehemence seemed to take the Commander off-guard. "I don't understand," he said.

Vergil stared down at his hands, overtaken by the vague, cold bleakness that always rose in him when thinking back on those carefree months, when he recalled her actions too sharply. In such times he tended to redirect his thoughts; he had plenty demons of his own to struggle with, already.

But he was a Son of Sparda, built in body and soul to fight demons, and she was starved and atrophied in a small cell. 

Maybe he had a duty to face her demons. 

He had added to them, after all.

"I think—" he hesitated, "no, I should say rather that I am convinced. Even back then, I suspected it strongly enough to... to wrestle a promise from her, even if naive and unhelpful. I did not have the maturity to truly grasp the gravity of her situation, so the comfort I offered was shallow, however well-meaning... but yes, I am sure now." 

"Sure of _what?_ " asked the Commander, with a hint of frustration, and Vergil had to review his own words a couple of times.

"I'm drunker than I thought," he mumbled to himself, and then turned to the Commander. "To be fair, I don't think I'd be able to handle the topic otherwise."

The Commander sat back on his chair, fixing Vergil with a bemused look.

"You're avoiding it. Whatever it _is_ ," he said, ruefully.

He was, wasn't he? Vergil wrapped his hand around Yamato's scabbard, imagined that maybe she was lending him some encouragement. 

_You have a duty._

"She was suicidal," he voiced, at last. "She was praying for death when we first met. She was strong enough to do it to herself by the time we parted. So I promised to be back, if she promised to... be there, when I did. And then I left, and I was too wrapped up in my own foolish pursuits to return until— now."

###

For some reason— for a completely obvious reason— Vergil was finding it very hard to tear his eyes away from his diffuse tabletop reflection. The silence had a strange fragile quality he was loath to disturb, and as it extended into minutes, he wondered whether the Commander felt the same way. 

But eventually the glass before him was tugged out of sight, and the Commander's hands laid on the tabletop with deliberate movements, into his view.

Vergil glanced up to find the Commander was regarding him with intense seriousness.

"I will handle the patrols," he said, gently. "But you will have a different part to play."

"Yes," Vergil mumbled, rubbing tiredly at one eye. "I need to investigate further. To track down each tendril of Sanctus' influence—"

"No," he said firmly, " _I_ need to investigate. You wish to ensure Nero's protection without drawing attention to your heritage, don't you?"

"Yes," Vergil said. "For as long as possible. Until I can secure—"

He was suddenly overwhelmed by, and then brutally suppressed, some strange physical reaction that was both like a sneeze and not at all. 

The Commander reached across the table to lay a steadying hand on his shoulder. 

"Then," he said, pointedly, "you must be _known_. No— not by your blood," he added quickly, as Vergil opened his mouth to protest. "By your actions. To the _people_."

Vergil stared.

"I don't understand," he said.

The Commander sighed. "We are... um, I think I best get some water—" he mumbled, reaching for a battered mini-fridge at his back. 

"Oh, for me too, please," Vergil requested, and the Commander's shoulders shook in amusement. "I don't often partake," continued Vergil, defensively. 

"Apologies, I didn't mean to offend," he said smoothly, turning back to Vergil with a single glass and a jug of water in hand. "It only makes sense, when one leads the kind of life you seem to have led. May you have plenty of opportunity, coming forward, to take a shot of liquor for granted."

He set Vergil's glass on a closed stamp pad, and the jug on a manila folder; Vergil downed the whole thing in a single very long gulp. 

"Better," said Vergil with a sigh. "Can you elaborate, now? On your... stratagem."

"It's hardly a _stratagem_ ," the Commander said, settling back on his chair with a look of exhaustion that aged him ten years. "It's more like a notion. An understanding, perhaps, or an expectation. Of my people, and our backwards, old-fashioned ways."

The man gazed into the distance, subdued.

"You have most certainly been subjected to the ugly parts of it— the assumptions, the gossip, the prejudice. But," he stared down at his gloved hands, "the flipside of this antiquated spirit is that we are, very much, a nation of _romantics_. And we love nothing so much as a fairy tale."

He glanced up, a rueful smirk in his lips.

"Do you get me, Vergil? You are a foreign knight in a bigoted land, an underdog; your lady lies locked away in a tower, your love the very definition of star-crossed; and the child you did not know she begot was squirreled away into the one orphanage farthest from the family home. It's a sordid tale, yes— but it's also a _romantic_ tale, and the difference lies entirely in the manner in which it's told. And if you can control the narrative, you'll have the island eating out of your hand, ancestry or no ancestry— Sanctus has proven this much."

"But— what good is any of this to me? To _Nero?_ "

"Think!" The Commander left his chair to pace again, moving his hands in passionate discourse. "This is a small land. Our populace is harried, starved of good news. Once Isobella Martinelli is freed— and she _will_ be freed, you are in the _right_ — the entirety of Fortuna will be abuzz with your tale. They will hear of your love and the barriers you overcame, and they will know your faces. And they will hear of your child, and they will know _his_ face. They will greet you wherever you go, and be excited of your presence, and if anyone— a member of the nobility or the Order or even a friendly neighbor— happens to be found skulking by your little fair-headed boy, or leading him away by the hand, you can bet he will be followed by a procession of _absolutely terrifying crones_. Grocers and bakers will _tackle_ any miscreant who attempts to steal him away. But for your tale to have this effect... you must be known. You must be seen. You must be _loved_. You must become a hero beyond reproach. And that means..." 

He turned to Vergil with eyes feverishly bright.

"...you will have to _socialize_."

Vergil made a face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tridentino: Listen. My plan is foolproof. We're making you a celebrity--  
> Vergil: I'm not drunk enough for this


End file.
